The Survivors of Gamma Company
by TheAmateur
Summary: 2564. The Covenant's defeat has put the Insurrectionists back into business, but maybe they are much more than the rag-tag group of rebels the UNSC believes them to be. Enough to force Spartans out of retirement -Sequel to The Spartans of Gamma Company-
1. Prologue

Prologue

**0432 Hours, July 28, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Slipspace, en route to the Herculis System**

**UNSC _Day of Wrath_**

_Routine_.

It doesn't seem like much to most people, but it made up the majority of basically every day for Commander Jurgen Wagner. From the moment when he climbed out of his bunk in his quarters to start his duty as First Officer on the _Day of Wrath_ to the moment he returned to it every night, Commander Wagner's life was as uneventful as that of a goldfish in an empty bowl, swimming around and around in a perpetual circle until it moved on to the next life.

Each day was an identical clone of the last; nothing new or interesting ever occurred, there were no mind-blowing discoveries, there was never any action. Life on the UNSC frigate was uninteresting, uneventful, boring. And Commander Wagner loved it that way.

He had survived the Human-Covenant War, which had ended eleven years ago. He had been a lieutenant serving on the UNSC _Spear of Destiny,_ another frigate in the then-shattered UNSC fleet. His ship had gone through the Portal in Africa and had fought in the Battle of Installation 00, or the Ark as it was more commonly referred to.

He had been to Hell and back, and he had survived it all, something the majority of the Human race hadn't been able accomplish in the war. After surviving through a huge ordeal like that, an uneventful life of routine on board a frigate for a couple of years wasn't too bad at all for the battle-hardened commander.

The recently awakened from cryo-sleep commander was in the prep room adjacent to the cryo-chamber, in the process of slipping into his uniform when the holo-pad near the door pulsed to life. A shimmering, one foot-tall male figure appeared over the white circle, appearing as his chosen avatar; a short, plump, eighteenth century butler complete with a black frock coat, a balding head, a shiny top hat, and a cheery, rosy complexion. "Good morning, Commander. If I may say so, it is a pleasure to see you up and about again," the shipboard smart AI greeted Wagner in his light, formal British-accented voice.

"You too, Jarvis," Commander Wagner finished putting on his uniform and stood up, glancing in the mirror and straightening out any defects, "How're you holding up?"

"I am functioning optimally, thank you for asking," Jarvis smiled, "Now that you are actively functioning as well, the captain wishes for you to report to the bridge. We will be dropping out of slipstream space momentarily."

"On my way, thank you."

Jarvis gave a small nod and vanished, his task completed.

Commander Wagner left the prep room and strode into the mostly empty corridors of the frigate, making his way towards the nearest lift. He passed several members of the ship's technical staff on his way, exchanging respectful nods with them as he walked by. Save for the techies, the corridors were mostly empty, as all of the ship's complement of marines and most of the deck crews were still in cryo-sleep, due to the slipspace jump into the Herculis System the _Day of Wrath_ had been ordered to execute two weeks ago.

Wagner reached the Section Four lift and waited as the weight sensors in the floor right in front of the lift door detected his presence. Several seconds later, the doors hissed open and Wagner walked inside. "Bridge," Wagner stated. The lift whirred to life and ascended for another few seconds up through several decks, a barely detectable lurch being the only warning before it reached its destination. The doors hissed open again, revealing the bustling bridge of the _Day of Wrath_. The bridge crew were all at their respective stations and posts, all of them also recently awakened from cryo-sleep.

"Morning, gentlemen," the commander yawned as he strode onto the bridge, making his way over to his post, a tactical console station situated behind and to the right of the captain's chair. The low hum of quiet activity was broken by remarks of "Welcome back, sir" and "Good morning, sir" from the bridge crew.

"Good to have you back, Jurgen," Captain Anatoly Raemius rose from his chair and gave Wagner a light clap on the shoulder.

"And you as well, sir," Wagner returned the gesture to his commander and friend.

"Impeccable timing, Commander," Jarvis, who was hovering over the holo-pad next to the captain's chair, said cheerfully, "We are returning to normal space…now—" the AI paused briefly as he interacted with the Shaw-Fujikawa Translight Engine. The familiar rushing sound which accompanied all slipspace transfers was heard as the frigate emerged back into reality. Data flooded back into the ship's systems, sending readings onto consoles and images to screens. The main viewscreen flickered to life, showing an image of Cibola, a medium-sized class-M planet, and the star Herculis way beyond it. The star-sprinkled darkness of space filled the entire background.

Cibola was one of the many planets which had been considered for colonization years ago, but then Harvest happened in 2525 and put any colonization plans on hold indefinitely. Soon after the war's end, dozens of planets had been scouted out for colonization. After all, the UNSC had lost all but a handful of its worlds; it needed more planets to live on. Millions of refugees had been sent to some of the aforementioned planets over nine years ago, along with millions of Elite refugees from the destroyed High Charity and other worlds ravaged during the Great Schism. Together, they had formed joint Human-Sangheili colonies on dozens of planets so far, combining the superior Sangheili technology with Human ingenuity and innovativeness to make those colonies thrive. Most of them had full-fledged cities and increasing populations by now.

The world of Cibola was one of those colonies.

"So do we finally get to learn why we're here?" Wagner asked Captain Raemius. He was ignorant of the reason why the _Day of Wrath _had been contacted by HIGHCOM two weeks ago and ordered to proceed directly to the Herculis System. The _Wrath_ had been the closest ship to the distant star system, but Raemius hadn't told anyone what the reason for the jump was. The crew had been put into cryo-sleep and that was the end of it.

"The Elites received reports of unknown hostile ships in this system," Raemius explained, "According to those reports, those ships destroyed the corvette stationed near the planet when it attempted to contact them. HIGHCOM sent us in to investigate because we are the nearest. Sangheili forces were sent as well, and they will be arriving shortly. For now, we're on our own."

"But why would someone attack Cibola?" Wagner put forth the question everyone was thinking.

"Because Cibola has a fusion warhead facility which has produced several NOVA warheads, bombs capable of destroying or at the very least severely, _severely_ damaging entire planets," Jarvis explained after Raemius gave him a nod, "During the war, a _single_ NOVA warhead ravaged a large Covenant planet, destroyed its moon, and obliterated an entire fleet of Covenant capital ships. If someone were to attack Cibola, I cannot think of a more logical motive other than its supply of NOVA warheads," the AI finished, falling silent.

"Sir!" Lieutenant Gervais exclaimed from the tactical post, "Multiple contacts detected in orbit around Cibola."

"Show me," Raemius ordered.

Gervais input several commands into his console at the captain's order. The viewscreen flickered and magnified by several times. Cibola ballooned in size, big enough to fill most of the screen. A cluster of seven ships was visible, all of them in a standard orbit above the planet. Five of them resembled UNSC frigates, but somehow weren't; the design and make was different, more advanced. The other two ships were completely alien; they were a golden hue, shaped like large streamlined cones, starting out wide and broad in the back with the engines and tapering off to a point in the very front. They weren't just blank golden cones, though, their surfaces were broken by features such as observation decks and weapon systems.

"Who the hell's ships are those?" Lieutenant Shields asked in a very confused tone, "I've never seen or even _heard_ of ships like those yellow ones."

"They aren't responding to my hails, captain," Gervais reported, returning the viewscreen to normal, "Sir, that's gotta be them."

"Helm, take us in, full impulse power," Raemius ordered, taking a seat in the captain's chair, "Bring weapons systems online, charge the MACs and plot a solution. Ready Archer pods One through Eighteen and power up our plasma turrets."

The plasma turrets were a new addition to UNSC vessels as the research and development jockeys reverse-engineered more Sangheili and Forerunner technology. UNSC plasma turrets were still inferior to their Sangheili counterparts; they needed to recharge every few seconds, but they were still a large leap forward. Wagner couldn't help but regret not having this technology discovered _sooner_ during the war when it was needed most. Billions of lives could have been saved if only the UNSC could have—

Wagner shook his head, clearing his mind. The past existed to be learned from and remembered, not to be lived in. That job was reserved for the present. And the present was _now,_ not during the war.

As the _Wrath_ neared Cibola, the five ships resembling UNSC vessels turned towards it while the other two alien ships began to veer off.

"Sir! I'm detecting slipspace ruptures; those two ships are leaving!" Gervais alerted the captain.

Raemius thought fast, ordering the viewscreen to be magnified once again, zooming in much closer on the two alien ships heading straight towards rapidly-forming crackling circles of purple and white. "Jarvis! Capture that image!" the captain barked at the AI, "When we make our report, I want to have proof."

"Done," the smart AI quickly replied, giving a satisfied half-smile.

As the bridge crew watched, the two alien ships entered the ruptures and vanished into slipspace, heading off to an unknown destination. "The remaining vessels are on an intercept course, ETA: one minute," Jarvis reported, "They are powering up their weapons and preparing to fire. Might I suggest taking evasive action?"

Raemius nodded in agreement, "There's a time and place for direct confrontations; this is not one of them. Evasive maneuvers!" The captain shouted over to Ensign McCaffrey, the helmsman, "Jarvis, take the turrets!"

As the _Day of Wrath_ veered off to the left, Jarvis took control of its plasma turrets. They glowed bright blue and finally white as they warmed up before spitting out huge, precisely measured bolts of plasma at the lead hostile ship. The searing bolts crashed into the ship, melting right through its front and starboard armor. It spun away slowly, venting atmosphere.

"They weren't expecting that," Wagner noted, "They must not know a lot about our improvements."

The other four ships broke off and fired their MAC cannons and what appeared to be advanced energy beams. The MAC rounds, fired while their ships were veering off, all missed the _Wrath_ by a large margin, but the lasers all hit the UNSC frigate. The frigate's energy shields, another new feature added with the plasma turrets, sparkled as they absorbed the lasers. The hull itself was unscathed.

As the _Wrath_ drew up alongside one of the unknown ships, the bridge crew got a good look at the name of the vessel. "URF _Balanced Scales_…" Wagner read it aloud, his eyes widening as he recognized the three initial letters, "URF stands for United Rebel Front…those are Insurrectionists! I thought they were wiped out; how did they get ships like that?!"

"I'll go out on a limb here and say that they probably aren't in the mood to tell us," Raemius replied, "Fire Control, fire our starboard lateral MAC. Jarvis, you're on cleanup."

"Aye sir, opening fire," Lieutenant Compton said as he complied. Wagner heard the familiar _**BOOM**_ of a MAC cannon firing. The viewscreen changed to a side view of the passing ship as the MAC round tore right through its hull, creating a sizeable rip in the armor. Jarvis then fired the now-recharged plasma turrets straight into the rip, causing a large amount of havoc on the Insurrectionist ship.

Still not satisfied, Captain Raemius turned back to Lt. Compton and ordered him to fire Archer pod Six, sending a hail of thirty archer missiles streaking into the gash in the Insurrectionist ship's hull. At least one of the missiles must have hit something vital, because myriad small explosions erupted all over the enemy ship's hull until, several seconds later, the whole vessel exploded in a brilliant ball of flame which vanished just as quickly as it had appeared due to the lack of oxygen in space.

As the _Wrath_ cleared the wreckage, the other three ships turned towards it, trying to surround the UNSC frigate, but Captain Raemius continued to evade them. As this continued for several minutes, the whole ship rocked suddenly as a MAC round from one of the enemy ships scored a hit.

"Status report!" Wagner shouted as the red emergency lights activated, bathing the bridge in a hellish glow.

"We've taken a hit to our port side," Lt. Gervais reported, "Slight hull damage in section five on decks fourteen through sixteen…our energy shields are down as well. If we take another hit like that before they recharge, we're done."

As the bridge officer spoke, the Insurrectionist ships formed up in front of and to the sides of the _Wrath,_ cutting her off.

"Orders, sir?" Ensign McCaffrey asked, a nervous edge in his voice. Raemius considered the situation for a moment. It was not a good place to be in; shields down with hostile ships blocking your way forward.

"Jarvis, how long before our shields come back online?" the Captain asked the shipboard AI.

"Approximately five minutes, sir," Jarvis replied, "Too long to be of any immediate use. I would suggest activating the emergency thrusters—"

"Sir, new contacts slipping in!" Gervais exclaimed as the readings on his console began to beep.

"Onscreen," Raemius ordered. The viewscreen changed to a rear view, showing three crackling slipspace ruptures emerging behind the _Wrath_. From those ruptures came three Sangheili battlecruisers; the promised, expected, and incredibly convenient reinforcements. Their weapons glowed brightly as they warmed up before they all fired plasma torpedoes at the three Insurrectionist ships.

Gervais returned the viewscreen to a normal view in time to see the searing plasma burn right through the three ships. The one the _Day of Wrath_ had damaged beforehand instantly detonated in a bright conflagration while the other two took heavy damage. One of them still had its engines intact and, before the Sangheili vessels could fire again, it vanished into slipspace. The other was not so lucky, having been completely disabled by the plasma torpedo which had hit it.

Captain Raemius opened his mouth to order the helmsman to take the _Wrath_ in closer to the helpless Insurrectionist ship to negotiate its surrender when it suddenly exploded in a white flash before the captain had a chance to speak. "What the—"

"They must have initiated their self-destruct protocol," Jarvis mused, "I believe you were telling quite the truth when you said that they were not in a talking mood. Shame…"

"Did you pick up anything from them? Data readings, transmissions, anything?" Wagner asked Jarvis, "Who, _what_ were those alien ships that they were with? What were they doing in this system? Where is their base of operations? Anything?"

The miniature holographic butler gave a delighted nod, "I was able to pick up several coded transmissions before they became aware of our presence."

"Were you able to decipher them?" Wagner asked the smart AI.

Jarvis cocked an eyebrow, surprised at the question. "I will pretend I did not hear that, Commander. Of _course_ I deciphered it; what do you take me for, a floppy disk?! I merely believed that informing you of the fact in the middle of a battle was neither the most favorable time nor place. If you desire, I can play it back for you now. I think you will find some of the answers you have been looking for."

"Do it," Raemius ordered the AI. Jarvis nodded again and played back the transmission. The bridge crew listened intently, picking out human voices interspersed with unknown alien voices speaking perfect English. They spoke for a full minute before stopping abruptly, obviously the point when they noticed the _Day of Wrath's_ presence.

The bridge crewmembers' faces went pale as they comprehended what the Insurrectionists were saying. Even Captain Raemius looked pretty shaken, and captains weren't supposed to show their emotions.

"Oh my God…this is _not_ good…" Wagner murmured.

Raemius grunted in agreement. "So the rebels are much more powerful than we thought…and they have powerful new friends…" he summed the transmissions up, "Hail the Elites and thank them for me," he said to Lt. Gervais, "Then I want us back in slipspace heading for Earth. We have to inform HIGHCOM of what we've found out here…"

Wagner sat down at his post near the captain's chair verifying the transmissions Jarvis had shown him. They all alluded to an unknown advanced alien race—obviously the owners of those two ships the _Wrath_ had run into earlier—and several other things including a huge Insurrectionist fleet. But there had been one other thing which had been mentioned several times, obviously a point of interest. It had been a name.

Wagner murmured it to himself, as if just saying the name would unlock its mystery. "_Ambrose_…"

* * *

**_Author's Note_**

Well I guess I wasn't planning on starting a sequel quite yet, but it's summer and my home life seems slightly more boring without creating more adventures after I finished my first story (read it if you haven't already), so I thought _what the hell_ and I wrote a prologue for the sequel I have been planning. I haven't fully thought out the plot yet, so it may go a little slower than my previous story, but I should be fine once this story gets going. Plotlines have a way of sweeping you up along with them if you write the right way.

Well anyway, if you are reading this, thank you and stick around!

-TheAmateur


	2. Chapter 1: A Peaceful Life

Chapter One: A Peaceful Life

**1745 Hours, August 3, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Riverside, New York**

The nervous teenager eyed the streamlined mongoose ATV sitting on the other side of Forrester Street outside Ignacio's Pizzeria, a sense of foreboding developing in his gut. For the umpteenth time, he was regretting the earlier bet he had made with his three friends, saying that he could steal the next vehicle to park in that particular parking spot. "Hey, guys, you sure about this?"

"What, Tom, you havin' second thoughts _already_?" another of the adolescents remarked, "Unless you think 'Hey guys, I bet 50 creds that I can jack the next vehicle to park in that spot' has another meaning we don't know about?"

"No…" the nervous teen, Tom, corrected himself, starting to fidget uncomfortably, "It's just that…well, that's a _mongoose_; it's a military vehicle. You can't get shit like that from dealerships. The owner's got to be a vet, and he probably won't be too happy about having his ride jacked!"

"Aight, then, that's 50 creds, cough 'em up!" the tallest of the four adolescents smirked, holding out his hand in a 'pay up' gesture. The other two friends did likewise.

"_Fine_…damn it all…" Tom swore, making his way across the street once it was clear and cautiously approaching the parked mongoose. He stole a quick glance through the windows of the pizzeria, sweeping his gaze over the people seated inside. One of those people had to be the owner of the mongoose.

Tom's ultimate mistake was turning his back to the door of the pizzeria, which had been propped open despite the rain shower to accommodate the high temperatures outside. He bent down over the mongoose's seat and found the panel which housed the wires running from the ATV's battery to the motor. As he attempted to get a good hold on the metal square, a hand swooped out of nowhere and closed around Tom's wrist in a vice-like grip.

_Shit_... was Tom's first and only thought. The teenager straightened up and turned to look at his apprehender. He was a man in his late twenties and of medium height and build. He had wavy brown hair and a spray of freckles across his face, but his most striking feature was his piercing electric-blue eyes. _Oh, __**SHIT**_, Tom shouted in his head, much louder that time, recognizing the man. "M-Mister Ambrose…I was just—"

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" the apprehender, Ambrose, gave a half-smile gesturing to the mongoose, "You have a good reason why I _shouldn't_ turn your arm into a maraca right here, right now?" he gestured to Tom's ensnared wrist.

Tom didn't know too much about Alexander Ambrose; _no one_ really did. He and his wife had arrived in Riverside ten years ago with a newborn son. They had been only seventeen years old at the time, but everyone knew that there was much more to them than what met the eye. They moved into a newly-finished home on Sutton Street and had lived there ever since, integrating themselves into the community. They and their son were a nice group of people, actively participating in school and other recreational activities. But they also had an air of mystery about them. Even though Alex and Sam Ambrose would have been young teenagers during the war, the citizens of Riverside knew that they had played some large part in the conflict; but other than that little piece of knowledge, the details of the Ambroses' past remained a mystery.

It has always been human nature to fear that which is unknown, and Tom was doing a good job of proving that statement true. The teenager gulped nervously in response to Ambrose's question. "No, sir."

Ambrose's half-smile turned to a full grin. He nodded, slackening his grip on the teenager's arm, allowing him to pull away. "You have enough nads to own up to your mistakes; that's good. That'll get you some ways through life…however, stealing vehicles for whatever reason _won't_," Ambrose emphasized the last word, "And if you or any of your friends get any ideas about doing some crazy thing to me or my house because of this, tell them to forget it. I've killed _brutes_ with my bare hands in the war; I don't think a pack of teens will be too much for me or my wife to sweat over. Now, do you have something to say?"

Tom knew that when Mr. Ambrose asked if he had something to say, he really wasn't _asking_. "Yes, sir…I'm really sorry for trying to steal your ride, sir," Tom stammered, struggling to get the words out.

"Anything else?" Ambrose beckoned for Tom to continue.

"And it won't ever happen again," Tom quickly added.

"And…?"

"To you or anyone else," Tom finished.

"That's what I want to hear," Ambrose gave a satisfied nod. He glanced at his watch briefly to get the time, wincing once he determined it. "Ten of six…gonna be a little late…ah well, I'm sure I can give Sam an excuse that doesn't involve you," he mused. Just as he finished talking, a young boy no older than eleven emerged from the pizzeria bearing a large pizza box. Tom recognized him instantly; he was Robin Ambrose, the child track prodigy.

Robin was the spitting image of his father, inheriting Alex Ambrose's piercing blue eyes, but people could also see his mother in him as well. He had inherited his parents' genetic augmentations and therefore was the best sprinter in the town, even though he wasn't old enough to be part of any team yet. The Ambroses had told no one about their augmentations, or even about them being spartans, so as far as Riverside was concerned, Robin was just an extremely talented freak of nature. The only person in the town who knew of the Ambroses' true nature was Albert 'Alley' Garris, a retired UNSC marine who also fought in the war, but he kept quiet as well. Like any other veteran of any war, he knew the value of peace.

"Ignacio slipped us some leftover breadsticks," Robin excitedly told his father, "He said he was about to throw them away, so why not put them to good use?"

Ambrose smiled again. Ignacio Gucciano, the grizzled old Italian man who had owned Ignacio's Pizzeria for decades now, was the Michelangelo of breadsticks; whenever he decided to slip the Ambroses the leftovers every now and then, it was a cause for celebration. Ambrose took the pizza box and placed it onto the back panel of the mongoose, using bungee cords to hold it in place and prevent it from flying off. He climbed into the driver's seat and fired up the engine, giving it a good rev. Robin slipped on behind his father, wrapping his arms around Ambrose's waist. "You have a nice day, now," Ambrose gave a final nod to Tom as he hit the gas and accelerated away.

Alex took note of the group of three teenagers who had been standing across the street observing the whole exchange between himself and Tom. They hadn't really done a good job of being discreet; that, or maybe Alex's awareness was just way above average. Either way, he connected them with Tom in an instant. He drove up onto the sidewalk and blew right past them, saying, "The bet's off."

The small, streamlined mongoose ATV sped down Forrester Street, cutting a path right through the summer rain. Riverside had been having a heat streak for the past week and a half with temperatures in the mid to high 90s, making this rainstorm particularly welcome. As the rain struck the thoroughly baked asphalt of the streets, a thin layer of steam rose up into the air, blanketing the ground in a layer of white.

"Afternoon, Ambroses!" Mr. Hallifern, the elderly man who lived at the corner of Forrester and Guilford, greeted Alex and Robin as the mongoose headed past his home.

"Hey, Hally, how's the wife holding up?!" Alex hollered back.

"She'll be out of the hospital next week, thanks for asking!"

The mongoose turned onto Guilford Street and continued down that road for a ways. Gradually, the closely packed in buildings and shops of downtown Riverside gave way to the looser, more spacious suburban homes further out in the town's residential areas.

As they turned onto Samson Avenue, the last turnoff before Sutton Street, Alex brought the mongoose to a halt. He glanced over into Haverly's Woods, the thick, hilly forest which ran through Riverside on both sides of the Yorkshire River. Samson Avenue eventually curved off to the right and ran right through the woods and over the river to the other side, merging with another main road which led to a highway. Sutton Street, the road which the Ambroses lived on, was a offshoot of Samson Avenue, running a mile and a half inside Haverly's Woods and ending in a cul-de-sac. Alex still had a stretch of Samson Avenue to drive through before it turned into the woods, and then after that another stretch before reaching Sutton Street. Of course, that is assuming that he only stuck to the roads.

"You want to do the woods again?" Robin asked Alex, a hopeful tone creeping into the young boy's voice.

"I'm thinking about it…" Ambrose murmured, "If we _did_ go through the woods, the pizza would be a lot hotter by the time we got home…and this _is_ an ATV we're driving…you up for it, Ace?"

Robin nodded eagerly, breaking out in a wide smile. Extra breadsticks from Ignacio and an adventure through the woods all within minutes of each other; this had turned out to be a good day!

"Aight, woods it is, then," Alex turned the mongoose onto the sidewalk and gunned the motor, sending the mongoose rocketing through the row of homes on the side of Samson Avenue and into the woods beyond.

Haverly's Woods was a peaceful place to go for a walk or even camping for a night. The trees managed to mask the sounds of the town, leaving only the sounds of nature to fill a person's ears. Well except now; the delicate peaceful silence of Haverly's Woods was shattered by the Ambroses' mongoose.

Robin and Alex's ecstatic whoops and cheers were muffled by the mongoose's motor as Alex expertly manipulated the controls of the ATV and avoided hitting trees, sending them through the largest gaps and pathways. Every few seconds they would hit a small bump, sending them jerking into the air for a moment or two.

The water collected in the treetops was continuously falling to the earth in large, fattened drops. As they sped through the curtain of water, the Ambroses' faces and hair quickly became drenched and slicked back, but that only added to the rush. After five full minutes of plowing through the woods, Robin gave his dad a nervous nudge. They were approaching the ledge, a thirty-foot tall cliff-like rock formation near the Ambroses' house. There was a clearing around the bottom of the cliff, making it into a good place for picnics or other outdoor festivities.

"Um…Dad?" Robin called out to his father, "We're almost at the ledge; you might want to slow down a bit!"

"Yeah, your point?!" Alex hollered back, accelerating the mongoose as fast as it could go, "I built a nice little surprise for the next time we came this way! I seem to remember you complaining that none of the bumps were high enough!"

A pit of fear developed in Robin's stomach. The eleven-year-old gulped nervously, having an inkling of what his father was talking about. "That's okay! Seriously, those bumps aren't that bad, we—"

"No!" Alex interrupted his son, "No, you were right; those bumps are _nothing_, what we need is a good jump!"

The ledge came into view; the actual cliff wasn't visible from the direction the mongoose was coming from, but the Ambroses were able to see the ground and trees continuing up until a point where there was nothing beyond except open air and treetops. The ground just seemed to drop away…which was really what it did.

The one thing about the ledge which Robin noticed was different was the wide wooden ramp placed right in front of the thirty-foot drop. His mouth dropped open slightly, leaving him speechless with shock. By the time the young boy recovered his voice, the mongoose had reached the ramp. Robin's scream of "DAAAAAD!!!!!!!" was lost as Alex let out an adrenaline-spiked whoop and gunned the engine one last time, sending the mongoose soaring out into thin air. It seemed like an eternity at first as the mongoose sailed up through the raindrops before gravity took hold, pulling the Ambroses back down to the earth.

Alex gripped the controls hard enough to turn his knuckles ghost-white as the mongoose fell back to the earth. The ATV managed to execute a full backwards flip before righting itself. The flip actually helped the landing, as the mongoose was already in the process of moving forward when it hit the ground. The ATV's extremely durable suspension caused it to bounce at least a foot back into the air before it came skidding to a full stop.

Alex slackened his grip on the controls, allowing blood to flow back through his knuckles. He let out a shaky sigh and twisted in his seat to face his son. "Well?"

"Wow…" was all Robin had to say between his gasps for breath, "We're doing that again next time!"

Alex fired up the motor again and set off through the woods once more. The rest of the odyssey through Haverly's Woods took only another minute or two before the Ambroses found themselves rolling through the Ripleys' backyard and onto Sutton Street. "Home, sweet home…" Ambrose murmured as their house came into view down the street.

He slowed the mongoose down as he turned into the driveway and parked it in the open garage next to the warthog and the 2534 AMG Nightrider occupying the rest of the space. "Grab the pizza and breadsticks, I'll get the door," Alex told his son, who nodded and started to undo the bungee cords holding the pizza box in place. Ambrose walked up to the open garage door and input the four-number code in the panel on the wall. The garage door registered the command and began to close. Alex followed his son into the house, locking the door behind him. "Honey, we're home!" He walked down the hallway, up the stairs, and into the front hall. His wife greeted him by throwing a towel in his face.

Sam Ambrose was Alex's age; twenty-seven and still kicking like a teenager. She was slightly taller than her husband with longer than shoulder-length red hair, green eyes, and a kind face. Her looks suggested Irish descent, but like the every other spartan who had existed during the war, she remembered nothing of the family she had lived with before she joined the Spartan-III program. All she knew was that they had lived and died on Emerald Cove, which had been glassed when she was six years old.

Sam was in the process of taking off Robin's shirt and toweling him down when Alex walked in. She tossed her husband a towel, exclaiming, "You aren't setting a single foot further into this house until you dry off, mister."

"Mister?" Alex chuckled as he ran the towel through his hair, "Last time you called me 'mister' was when I burned the garden down two months ago."

Sam answered with a grunt, finishing drying off her son. "Go to your room and put a dry shirt on," she told Robin. The eleven-year-old nodded and clambered up the stairs, taking his dripping wet shirt with him. "You too!" she added quickly as Alex moved to enter the kitchen.

"Oh, fine…just to put your mind at ease," Ambrose headed back towards the stairs, "Robin still have the party to go to tonight?"

Sam shook her head. "No, it got cancelled because of the rain."

"So that means that we're all together tonight," Alex grinned, "And today just so happens to be Saturday."

"Movie night it is, then," Sam smiled as well, "I guess we can't do the old red light, roses, and romantic music act with our son home…movie night'll have to do. Now hurry up and get changed; I'm starving!" she snapped, picking up the pizza box and heading into the kitchen.

Alex turned and headed up the stairs, walking right past the microphone hidden in the ventilation shaft at the bottom of the stairs, completely oblivious of the fact that he had been listened in on the whole time.

* * *

The man's name was Ibrahimi, he was the tech specialist in his Shade unit. Shade units were spec ops squads of nine men and women who partook in highly secret and dangerous operations. They were part of the URF military; they were Insurrectionists. Ibrahimi knew that his unit was here to capture Robin Ambrose, the child of two former spartans from the war.

_Not former spartans_ Ibrahimi shook his head, correcting himself. Once a spartan, _always_ a spartan. The Shade operative could only pray that this op would go exactly as planned. If it didn't, a lot of his squad would end up dead.

The insurrectionist shook his head once more, bringing himself back to the present. He didn't know _why_ the United Rebel Front Central Command wanted the Ambrose child, and he didn't care. His unit's mission was to capture the boy, and that's exactly what they intended to do. It wasn't their job to ask questions.

Ibrahimi had been holed up in the unmarked black van parked several miles away from the Ambroses' home on Samson Avenue for a full week. After it had been determined, with the help of a civilian freelance journalist, that Robin Ambrose had inherited his parents' genetic augmentations, Central Command had quietly given the Shade division the go-ahead to capture the child. Ibrahimi's Shade unit had been the one selected to carry out the mission.

His team had spent the first few days setting up, planning, and prepping for the operation. After than, they had dug in and were waiting for an opportune time to strike. After listening to the most recent conversation between Sam and Alex Ambrose, Ibrahimi now knew that Robin would definitely be home tonight. Tonight was also a good night because of the football game occurring on the other side of town between Riverside High and some other high school from another area. Law enforcement would be pre-occupied, resulting in a more delayed response if the operation went south.

Ibrahimi interfaced with the van's radio, which was actually the receiver for the microphones planted in the Ambroses' house, and played the last conversation back. He nodded finally once he heard the bit about the Ambrose boy's party being cancelled due to the rain.

Robin Ambrose would be home tonight.

Ibrahimi reached for his COM unit and activated it, setting it to the private and highly secure channel his team was operating on. "Ibrahimi to Team Leader, come in Team Leader."

The COM was silent for a few moments, but it soon squawked in response and the voice of Captain O'Riley, the commanding officer of the Shade team, issued forth. "This is O'Riley; tell me something good."

Ibrahimi paused for a second before taking a deep breath and making up his mind for the last time. "The target is going to be home for the night. Our mission is a go."


	3. Chapter 2: The Penny Drops

Chapter Two: The Penny Drops…

**2215 Hours, August 3, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Riverside, New York**

"I guess I can honestly say that Alan Moore movies still have yet to get old," Alex Ambrose mused as he took the vidi-disk out of the player below the TV, slipping it into its case.

"Well, Ace, it's past your bedtime," Sam nudged her son, bringing him back to full awareness.

"Mm…" Robin yawned and stretched, eyeing his mother sleepily, "That's okay, I'm not that tired…"

Sam opened her mouth in response, but Alex cut her off before she could say anything. "That's okay, honey, he can stay downstairs if he wants," Alex told her, giving her a barely perceptible wink. He returned to the couch and plopped back down next to her, saying, "We'll just be talking about how much we _love_ each other," Alex chuckled, planting a loud kiss on his wife's cheek.

Robin sprang up from the couch faster than a leaping gazelle, heading towards the stairs in the next room. "Night," he mumbled.

"Sleep well!" Sam called after him, her voice quivering with barely suppressed laughter, "I'm surprised that still works…"

The Ambroses settled back into the couch, relaxing for a few minutes in a peaceful silence. Silence had always been hard to come by during the war; one could never find peace with lead and plasma flying over your head and aliens trying to wipe out your species. Silence had become a treasure of the Ambroses, something which they never took for granted.

"He's lucky," Sam sighed, breaking the silence, "I remember Gunny Anderson electrocuting us with that baton of his every time we so much as yawned," she remarked, bringing back lots of 'happy' memories of her training back on Onyx all those years ago.

"Yeah…Anderson was one tough bastard," Alex agreed, wincing at the memories of Gunnery Sergeant Anderson, one of the chief instructors who had trained Gamma Company on Onyx. He had been their worst nightmare for ten years…but after the war every surviving Spartan-III agreed that they probably wouldn't have lived if not for his methods.

"Well, I've got to go in to the academy tomorrow; they've got another bunch of recruits needing some…professional…training," Alex yawned, his weariness getting the better of him. He didn't mind his job; he actually enjoyed it to a degree. A year after he and Sam had moved into Riverside, the nearby state Police Academy had taken note of them; somehow—whilst _not_ knowing about them being Spartans—they were aware that the Ambroses had been part of some sort of special ops during the war. The academy asked the Ambroses if they could help train recruits and Alex accepted, if only to give him something to do besides stay at home until his hair turned white. Sam had declined the job offer, remaining at home to take care of their then-infant son.

The recruits there at the time hadn't reacted positively to having an eighteen-year-old instructor. It had gotten to the point where one of the recruits openly insulted Alex and his ability, something unheard of in any academy. Alex had shrugged off the insult and challenged the bold recruit to a one-on-one, which the recruit had accepted. The fight lasted less than ten seconds and the recruit spent a month recovering in the nearest hospital's ICU. Alex's job as an instructor had gone flawlessly after that, earning an income so that his family wouldn't have to rely on the military pension.

"What is it this time, weapons?" Sam asked Alex as they both stood up and tidied up the couch.

"No," Alex smiled wolfishly, putting the couch's pillows back in their usual places, "Obstacle course and field simulations. Two of my personal favorites, both on the same day. Poor kids aren't gonna know what hit 'em."

* * *

Captain O'Riley watched the Ambrose couple switch off the lights in their family room through his field binoculars, switching to night vision to compensate for the ensuing darkness. He followed them through the windows with his rock-steady gaze as they ascended the stairs and entered their bedroom. As they started to undress, the Insurrectionist spec ops captain averted his gaze. Although he considered Samantha Ambrose to be quite attractive, it was beneath the dignity of someone like him to peep like that.

Captain O'Riley was the commanding officer of his Shade team, a spec ops unit of eight other highly trained men and women. Shade units like his were the ones who were always sent in to complete the most dangerous and covert missions. They had been closed down for twenty years during the Great War; after all, what was the point of attacking the UNSC in highly classified covert operations when the Covenant were wiping them out anyway, already accomplishing what the United Rebel Front could only dream of.

Then the war ended. The Elites sided with the UNSC and together they destroyed the remaining Covenant forces, effectively saving the UNSC from annihilation. It also put the Shade teams back into business. The UNSC was damaged, weakened, but it was not beaten and it was far from being destroyed.

But things had changed, now. Now, the Insurrectionists had powerful allies as well. They were organized, establishing control over a large, extensive network of worlds in the more distant reaches of the Orion Arm, outside both UNSC and former Covenant-controlled space, and they were powerful.

But at the same time, so was the UNSC. The UNSC, despite almost being wiped out ten years ago, had done a remarkable job of recovering. Displaced populations had colonized new worlds, the economy was nearly back on track, the military had been vastly improved. All that, then adding the fact that they, too, had powerful friends; the Sangheili.

Captain O'Riley wasn't a simple man; he knew that the URF Central Command was planning to strike at the UNSC very soon, but he honestly wasn't sure of who would come out on top. With the Elites coming into the equation on the UNSC's side...that could complicate a lot of things.

The captain inhaled deeply, and then let his breath out in a long, silent sigh, clearing his mind. He had a mission to carry out; until his team was back in URF space with their objective, nothing else mattered.

Most of O'Riley's Shade team was stationed in the woods behind the Ambroses' house, waiting for his order to move in. The only one _not_ in the woods was Private Ibrahimi, who was operating the technical side of the mission from the team's vehicle several miles away. Eventually, at O'Riley's command, he would pick the rest of the team up and move them to a safe place.

After waiting for another half an hour, O'Riley stole another glance into Alexander and Samantha Ambroses' bedroom window. They were both in their bed, sound asleep. The Shade team leader turned slightly and observed the window of Robin Ambrose's bedroom, finding the same thing.

It wasn't going to get any better than this.

Captain O'Riley reached for his COM unit and activated it. "All units, check in," he whispered, "Keep it quiet."

One by one, the other eight members of his Shade team confirmed their status, every one of them reporting that they were ready.

"Ibrahimi, anything over the mikes?" O'Riley asked the technical specialist of his team. He was about to enter a house with two spartans in it; the absolute _last_ thing he was going to do was take chances.

"No, sir," Ibrahimi's response was, "The house is silent."

O'Riley nodded to himself. He took another deep breath and calmed himself, entering the calm, cool state of purpose he felt before every mission. He brought the COM unit to his mouth and gave that final order. "Move in."

Two simple words…they didn't seem like much, but those two words were going to affect the lives of a _lot_ of people.

Captain O'Riley broke cover and stood up; not all the way, but enough to move on two legs without fully crouching. He made his way through the woods towards the dark house, linking up with two of his team. Together, they swiftly and silently made their way over to the back door. One of the commandoes pulled a small, circular device out from his belt and placed it against the glass of the door's window. He activated it and held it there for several seconds before removing it. A neat, perfect circle of glass came off with it, leaving a fist-sized hole in the door window.

O'Riley gave the operative a nod. The operative nodded back and carefully reached through the hole, unlocking the door from the inside, turning the knob, and opening it. There was no alarm; Ibrahimi had made sure of that beforehand when he was planting the microphones in the house. The door swung open and the three Insurrectionist commandoes silently entered the home. The floor creaked slightly as the first operative set foot inside, but other than that the team made no sound at all; silent as shadows and thoughts.

* * *

_"We _cannot_ stay here, Captain!" the battalion commander's voice blasted out of everyone's COM units, "If we remain here, the Covenant will roll in with their artillery and wraiths and hammer us until we're all corpses! We have to strike at them _now,_ when they're at their weakest. Your company and the rest of 2__nd__ Battalion are to cross the Dnieper River immediately. It's not my choice; I don't want this any more than you do, but it must be done. We either lose many in this advance, or _everyone_ by remaining on this side of the river. Good luck, Captain."_

_The sky was red…not really an uncommon sight these days. It had been red in New Mombasa where the Covenant had attacked as well; why should it be any different in Kiev?_

_Hundreds of marines, hundreds of them, were streaming past Alex and his team, charging onto the Moskovskyi Bridge and across the Dnieper River, straight into the Covenant defenses._

_Lt. Tikhonov and his squad of veterans were among them, along with many other familiar faces. Dozens of men and women fell before they reached the bridge's opposite end, taken down by the thick, concentrated streams of plasma flying out of the Covenant plasma cannon defenses._

_Heavy weapons teams bearing Jackhammer rocket launchers and deployable AIE-486H Heavy Machine Guns moved in after the initial rush of infantry and started to take out the heavier positions while snipers cleared the more lightly defended ones._

_"Forward!" Alex's team leader screamed, "Move _forward!!!_"_

_Alex and his team joined the bloody charge across the Moskovskyi Bridge, somehow evading weaponsfire while men and women all around them were cut down. As they neared the far side of the river, a particle beam from a Covenant beam rifle, most likely fired by a jackal sniper, lanced through the air and tore through Robin-G227's chest while Emma and Sam were felled by plasmafire from one of the plasma cannons. Sam managed to crawl away, but Em was clearly dead; there was no getting back up after taking hits where she did. Alex gazed at the remains of his fallen fellow spartans who lay on the snowy asphalt, dead of the wounds which had killed them in real life during the Battle of Installation 00._

_"Incoming!" a distant voice screamed, followed by the slam of a plasma bolt from a wraith's mortar hitting the ground somewhere nearby. Fires exploded everywhere and the asphalt cracked from the intense heat. Alex was thrown forward several yards, right into the path of an advancing Hunter pair, which had appeared out of nowhere. The nearer Hunter took one glance at Alex and raised its armored shield-bearing arm, obviously intending to crush its victim. Alex stared into the Hunter's featureless, orange 'face' for a full moment before the heavily armored arm came crushing down—_

Alex's eyes flew open and he snapped into a sitting-up position, panting as if he had just run a marathon. He glanced down at himself and noticed that he was covered in perspiration, almost slick with it. He glanced up briefly, staring into the darkness in front of him just to make sure that there was no Hunter there, nothing about to crush him into a bloody mess. Satisfied, he leaned back and rested his head on the wall behind him, propped up by his pillow.

"Still having nightmares?" Sam, roused by her husband's fits, asked him. She sat up as well and put her arm around his shoulders, drawing him close.

"I wouldn't call them nightmares…more flashbacks than anything…" Alex murmured, "It was Kiev, this time…when we had to charge across the Moskovskyi Bridge…"

Sam winced, remembering that day as well. A lot of good men and women had met their ends on that bridge, but at least their sacrifice allowed the human forces in the city to gain a foothold on the western side of the Dnieper River. Even so, it had been one of _the_ bloodiest engagements in the end of the war that year, except for September Beach on the Ark.

"It was the charge across the bridge…but it wasn't exactly what happened," Alex explained, "I saw Robin and Em die…they died the same way they did on the Ark…you were hit too…then these Hunters came out of nowhere and—"

"Shh—" Sam quieted her husband, staring straight into his eyes, "The war ended eleven years ago. Robin and Em weren't your fault, or mine, or _anyone's_. Humanity won, we came out on top. Because of them, we have a _future_ right now. That's what they fought and died for, remember that."

"I don't need to be reminded…" Alex mumbled, "But I still keep on having these goddamn dreams…maybe I should see a psychiatrist; they probably get a _lot_ of customers from the war…whatever's wrong with me shouldn't be too much of a problem…"

"You can worry about that later," Sam removed her arm, settling back under the sheets and resting her head on her pillow, "You have work tomorrow; get some sleep. Some _real_ sleep."

Alex nodded absent-mindedly and slid back down until he was under the covers as well. He lay there for a minute, staring up at the ceiling, before his eyelids grew heavy.

Just as his eyes slid shut, Alex heard something; a small, barely perceptible sound. He tensed, recognizing it. It was a light creak. That creak was a familiar creak, one that could only be caused by standing on the floor right in front of the back door. Robin was fast asleep, Sam was right next to him, and his family had no pet. There was only one logical explanation of what could have caused that creak.

Alex felt Sam stiffen as well, alerted by the creak from downstairs. "You hear that?" she whispered into her husband's ear.

Alex nodded, his primal instincts starting to take over. "We have company…"

* * *

"Bottom floor secure, move upstairs," Captain O'Riley whispered into the COM. The other seven Shade operatives acknowledged with nods. Using hand signals, the Insurrectionist spec ops team crept up the stairs, making no noise as they crept onto the upper floor of the Ambroses' house.

"Target is through the first door on the left," Werner, one of the Shade operatives, informed the rest of his team.

"I'll secure the target," O'Riley whispered, "Kittridge, Pacelle, on me. Werner, stay here and watch the Ambroses' room. Everyone else, get back downstairs. Ibrahimi," the team leader addressed the team tech, who was still in their vehicle, "I hope you're on the move; we're going to need you here _very_ soon."

"Acknowledged, team leader," Ibrahimi responded, "I am already en route, ETA one minute."

"Good. Team Leader out," O'Riley killed the channel. Reverting back to hand signals, O'Riley stealthily approached the target's bedroom door. He gingerly turned the doorknob and pushed the door open; far enough to be able to fit through, but not all the way to avoid risking another potential creak like the one downstairs. The insurrectionist made a quick sweep of the room and deemed it clear. He turned and sent Werner and Kittridge downstairs before returning his gaze to the target.

He was fast asleep in his bed, oblivious to all that was happening around him, oblivious to how important he was to the United Rebel Front's plans. O'Riley reached into his inner pocket and drew out a cloth and a small green bottle. The bottle contained Formula 2016 sedative, the same juice used on narq-darts and tranq-rounds—training ammunition for the military. After opening the bottle, he bunched up the cloth, pressed it to the bottle's opening, and upended the bottle for a moment, allowing the cloth to become saturated with the sedative.

O'Riley closed the bottle and stowed it away, its purpose fulfilled. He held the cloth ready and silently crept up to the sleeping boy's bedside. He glanced at Pacelle, giving her the 'ready?' gesture. She nodded in reply and leaned over the eleven-year-old, producing a length of sturdy rope.

O'Riley struck, pressing the loaded cloth into the sleeping boy's face, clamping his hand over his mouth. Robin Ambrose's eyes snapped open, wide with surprise and panic. He started to fight, but Pacelle yanked his arms behind his back, swiftly and expertly looping the rope around his wrists and binding them extra-tightly. "Christ, this kid is strong…" she grunted. Robin tried to scream to alert his parents, but O'Riley's grip was too tight. Finally, deprived of air, Robin drew in a deep breath through his nose, allowing the sickly sweet scent of the sedative to flow up his nasal passageways. A cool, relaxing sensation spread throughout his body after his first breath. His struggles grew slow and sluggish as the sedative took effect. Finally, he succumbed and went limp.

* * *

Alex placed his finger over his lips, gesturing for both of them to be quiet, then moved to get out of bed. Sam did likewise. They quickly slipped into their underwear for decency's sake before hurrying out into the hallway. Alex could hear muffled sounds coming from Robin's bedroom. A slight shiver went down his spine; an intruder was _in_ his son's bedroom!

Sam reacted first, sprinting forward and delivering a crushing kick to the door, shattering it. The remains of the door collapsed and caved in on themselves, clearing the way into the room.

Alex strode into the room, talking even before he saw the perpetrators, "What the hell do you think you're—" he broke off when his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room and noticed his son unconscious and in the arms of one of the intruders, both of whom were wearing full black helmets which covered their faces.

"Move out!" the one holding Robin shouted at the top of his lungs. Fast as lightning, he reached into his belt and drew out a silver orb, priming it, and then tossing it straight at the Ambroses.

Alex was only able to partially turn away before the stun grenade detonated, bathing the hallway in a blinding white flash, followed up by a loud ringing noise. It was an almost perfect replication of shell-shock; Alex and Sam were completely incapacitated for several seconds.

They could only catch fragmented glimpses of the lead intruder slinging their son over his shoulder and leaping out the window, followed by his comrade. By the time they recovered, the distant screeching of a rapidly approaching van was shattering the silence along with urgent shouts and orders coming from others downstairs and outside. There were a lot more than two people in their house.

The stun effect faded for Alex faster than Sam, as he had been able to turn at the last second and avoid the brunt of the blast. The moment the piercing ringing in his ears faded, he sprang to his feet. "Stop them…" Sam managed to croak. She was still lying on the floor, clenching her head painfully, but her tone was clear.

Alex sprinted back into his bedroom and walked straight over to the large chest at the foot of the bed. He opened it and took out one of the objects inside; his old prized SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle, the same one he had used back during the war. He grabbed three four-round clips of ammo and slammed one of them into the rifle's chamber, running back into the hallway and down the stairs. All the intruders in the house had rushed out; Alex could see them running out into the street.

Alex moved fast; he kicked down the front door and sprinted out onto the street after the kidnappers. They were already a good distance away, all of them piling into the back of an unmarked black van parked in the middle of the road, waiting for them.

Ambrose shouldered his sniper rifle, getting the old feel of it once more, and swiftly took aim. He fired once, sending a round into the skull of the last kidnapper about to board the van. He loosed off two more shots, one of them burying itself into the skull of another man and the other striking a woman in the upper torso.

Shouting came from the van and its doors banged shut. Its engines revved and the vehicle screamed away down Sutton Street. With time enough for one last shot, Alex fired one last time. This time, the round struck the fleeing van's fuel lines. A steady stream of orange-brown fuel started to fall from the van's tank, mixing with the water already on the road from the earlier rainstorm.

The van's tires screeched as it tore around the corner of Sutton Street onto Samson Avenue. Alex watched it go, an icy needle being driven further and further into his heart the farther away the van got until it finally vanished from sight, taking his son with it.


	4. Chapter 3: Investigations and Favors

Chapter Three: Investigations and Favors

**0800 Hours, August 4, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Riverside, New York**

"Alright, I'm just gonna give it to ya straight," Officer Waters sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily, "The K-9 teams determined that there were around eight perpetrators. Well, nine if you count the driver of the vehicle…anyway, they must have been holed up in the woods behind your house for a long time, maybe even days, preparing to strike."

"Do you know who did this or not?" Sam interrupted the policeman's report, impatient for answers. Her eyes were still slightly red with tears, and her tone was bitter enough to make the veteran police officer fidget.

Waters cleared his throat, mentally sorting through any useful information turned up from the ongoing investigation. "Mr. Ambrose," he addressed Alex, "You've done a _lot_ for the academy for the past nine years; you've done a lot for _us_. Believe me when I tell you, we have our best personnel on this investigation. However…the people who did this; they have to be professionals…tell me, did you touch or move anything before we arrived?"

"No," Alex shook his head, "We didn't want to taint the crime scene."

Waters nodded approvingly. "That's good; messing with things before the police arrive is a sure way to cock up an investigation. In this case, though, even with the scene perfectly as it was, there's barely anything that can help us identify who did this. Our only lead is the body of the man you killed out on the street…maybe _you_ can find something useful about him. Follow me," the officer beckoned for Alex and Sam to follow him. He led the Ambroses out through the space where the front door used to be, down the driveway, and out onto the street.

The police had cordoned off the entire street with yellow tape when they had arrived, declaring it a crime scene. Confused neighbors had been gathered out on their driveways before the police herded them back into their homes. Police officers and CSI investigators were moving around the street and the Ambroses' house, taking note of every small detail of the kidnapping.

Officer Waters led the Ambroses past a team of investigators cataloguing the four shell casings from Alex's sniper rifle and over to the corpse of the first man who Alex had managed to kill outside the van. The body was covered with a blue tarp, right in front of the twin set of skid marks left by the kidnappers' van as it sped away.

Waters gripped the tarp and heaved it over to the side, revealing the corpse. Ignoring the sizeable hole in the dead man's head, there was nothing particularly distinguishing about him. "We examined him, but found nothing extravagant. His DNA doesn't match up with anything in the UNSC archives…which is rather strange, but sometimes mistakes _do_ happen…anywho, you're free to examine the body; there's nothing else we can glean from it."

Sam crouched down on her knees and grasped the man's black jacket, ripping it open. "Check the pockets," she told her husband, tossing him the jacket. She continued to check through the rest of the body, finding nothing until she came across the man's leg holster, still containing his pistol.

"Nothing in the pockets," Alex grumbled, tossing the jacket back to the ground.

"Never mind that…take a look at this," Sam removed the sidearm from its holster and examined it. Alex and Officer Waters leaned in close to get a good look.

"This isn't a magnum…" Sam observed, turning the pistol over and running her fingers over it, "This is a desert eagle model handgun…and look, there's no micro-engraving or logo on the butt of the grip; this gun wasn't made by Misriah."

"But that's impossible," Waters exclaimed, "_All_ weapons are made by Misriah; no one else has the capability of creating firearms, not after the war."

"Obviously not," Sam retorted, waving the desert eagle in the officer's face to make her point.

"Well, that certainly is interesting, but it still doesn't tell us anything about the kidnappers," Waters argued, acknowledging Sam's reasoning, but also making _his_ perspective clear. And he was right. "At this point, the most we can do is—" the officer continued, only to be interrupted by a muffled electronic ringing coming from his pocket. Waters pulled out his cell phone, checked to see who the caller was, and then answered it, saying, "Tell me something good, Leo."

The Ambroses waited for a few minutes as Waters conversed with his colleague over the phone, speaking in hushed tones before nodding and closing the phone, slipping it back into his pocket. "An hour ago, one of our patrols found the van matching your description," the officer explained, "We found a lot of blood inside, which would account for the other two people who you shot, Mr. Ambrose. My partner just finished questioning your neighbors, checking to see if any of them remembered seeing the vehicle anywhere recently."

"And?!" Sam exclaimed, trying to keep her voice and temper down.

"Turns out, a Mr. and Mrs. Scully confirmed that they remembered seeing the vehicle once around three weeks ago, parked at the corner of Sutton Street and Samson Avenue," Waters explained, "But it still doesn't do us much good. We _still_ don't know—"

"Hold it," Sam cut the officer off, "The Scullys said they saw the vehicle at the _corner_ of Sutton Street? Were they sure?"

"Positive, according to Leo," Officer Waters replied.

Alex's eyebrows shot up in a classic 'AHA!' moment, realizing what Sam was getting at. "You're thinking about Mr. Peruski?" he posed the question to his wife, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah, Mr. Peruski. If this works, I'll have to remember to get him one of those boxes of rare Cuban cigars…" she murmured.

Officer Waters cocked an eyebrow, thoroughly confused at what the Ambroses were going on about. "Back up; what is this about Mr. Peruski?"

"Mr. Peruski is the old man who lives across the street from the Scullys, on the corner of Sutton Street and Samson Avenue," Alex explained to the officer, "He's a vet from the wars with the Insurrectionists before Harvest happened. Anyhow, a bunch of teens decided to vandalize his garden three months ago, so he installed a security system of state-of-the-art alarms and security cameras. Cameras which have a clear view of his house, his yard, and the _street_," Alex emphasized the last word.

It dawned on Waters what the Ambroses meant. "You think this Mr. Peruski has a video recording of the kidnappers? You think we might be able to find something there?"

"It's our best shot," Sam replied, already turning to head further down the street in the direction of Samson Avenue, ending the discussion then and there.

The officer and Alex had to jog to keep up with her, setting off down Sutton Street at a brisk pace. No one said a word for the next few minutes until Mr. Peruski's house came into view, right on the corner of Sutton and Samson. The trio walked up to the old man's driveway and stopped there, reluctant to go any further without the resident's permission. Alex cupped his hands to his mouth and called out for Mr. Peruski, but there was no reply.

Just as Alex was about to try again, a gruff, abrasive voice turned gravelly from chain-smoking hollered back from inside the house. "Who's that?! What the hell do you want—" the front door of the house flew open and a short, stooped elderly man with wispy gray hair and a matching mustache hobbled out. He stopped in mid-shout once he got a good glimpse of his visitors. "Oh…Ambroses…" he grumbled, "What can I do for you kids?"

Mr. Peruski was basically every old man stereotype rolled into one; he was grumpy, moody, abrasive, and he kept an old M6J Carbine somewhere in his bedroom. The fact that he was a veteran only added to the mix. He wasn't a cruel man, just reclusive, gruff, and brutally direct; he had been like that ever since his wife had passed away seven years ago.

Alex and Sam had helped them out with several things around their house and property when they first moved in and were becoming acquainted with the other residents of Sutton Street. As such, Mr. Peruski had a lot more tolerance for the Ambroses than anyone else. For exactly that reason, Alex advised Officer Waters to let them do the talking.

"May we come inside, sir?" Sam asked the old man politely, prompting raised eyebrows from Alex and Officer Waters at her sudden change of attitude.

Mr. Peruski considered for a few moments before shrugging and turning back into his house, gesturing for the Ambroses to follow with his head. "Bring your cop friend, too."

Once inside, Mr. Peruski offered them coffee or alcohol, but the three visitors politely declined. "Well," Mr. Peruski leaned against the wall, regarding his guests with a quizzical eye, "I doubt that you young'uns came to discuss life and its intricate mysteries, so let's dispense with the bull and get right to it, eh? And stop calling me _sir_…soldiers these days just can't break old habits…"

Alex sat down at the kitchen table and explained to Mr. Peruski everything that had transpired the previous night, from the kidnapping to the ongoing investigation.

Mr. Peruski hocked something up from the back of his throat and spat angrily into a spittoon sitting on the shelf next to him. "Someone _kidnapped_ lil' Runt?!" he asked incredulously, still using his old nickname for the Ambroses' son, "Now why in the name of Zeus's huge, electric butthole would someone do that? He was a damn good kid…helped me fix up my garden after those goddamn teenagers trashed it…"

"Did he really?" Alex cocked an eyebrow, learning this for the first time, "I didn't know that…"

"Yeah," Mr. Peruski grumbled, "Showed right up at my doorstep wanting to help. Stubborn runt wouldn't leave when I told him to, either…"

"We have a favor to ask you," Sam got right to the point, "One that may help us find out who took him."

"Shoot."

"The cameras you set up after the vandalism; are they still up and running?" Sam asked the older man, "They haven't broken down recently?"

Mr. Peruski thought for a second, and then shook his head, saying, "Nope. I check those hawks every morning; they've been fine."

"Is it possible to see anything those cameras have seen in the past? For instance; three weeks ago?" Alex posed the question deftly, crossing his fingers behind his back.

To the Ambroses' relief, Peruski nodded. "Yep, I made sure I can review everything those cameras've seen in the past. Never know when it may come in handy, and I'm assuming that's about to pay off."

"We think the kidnappers were here three weeks ago," Officer Waters explained, "And we also think that your security cameras may have spotted them. With your permission, we'd like to review their archives."

Mr. Peruski grunted in reply, his version of an 'alright'. "Well, I've got no beef with you cops, and I was just startin' to like Robin Ambrose...Hell, why not?" He beckoned for the Ambroses and the police officer to follow him upstairs and into the room at the far end of the hallway. The room was filled with technical equipment. One wall was covered with monitors showing clear views of places around the house; obviously live feeds from the cameras. The Ambroses took note of the driveway monitor, which also had a clear view of most of the street.

Mr. Peruski directed them to a large computer situated on a table up against the wall opposite of the monitors. "You can browse through the camera archives here," he explained, "Select the feed you want, and then enter in the date. In this case you'll want Monitor Seven, the driveway camera. When you enter in the date, it'll go to that date at midnight, so you'll have to fast forward through until you find what you want to see. Assuming that it's there," the old man added.

Officer Waters sat down in front of the computer and turned it on. A desktop with a picture of a much younger Archibald Peruski and several other men in UNSC Marine fatigues playing an animated game of poker appeared as the screen warmed up. There were two dozen icons, each one the archive for a different camera. Waters double-clicked on the icon labeled 'Monitor Seven' and the desktop screen was replaced with a still picture of Mr. Peruski's driveway and the street beyond, illuminated by his dim porch light. A small time read-out in the bottom-right corner read 0000; which was military hours for midnight. Lining the bottom of the screen was a control bar with several buttons on it; containing the simple and usual 'play', 'pause', 'stop' etc. etc.

"The Scullys said they saw it in broad daylight, so…" Waters selected the fast forward button and the image began to animate. Headlights of cars could be seen whizzing down Samson Avenue and flashes of wildlife could also be glimpsed before the picture moved on. As morning neared, the feed grew brighter and brighter, casting shadows which grew shorter as the sun moved. Cars from other homes on Sutton Street sped out of their garages and zoomed down the street and away onto Samson Avenue, on their way to work.

No one noticed anything until the time read 1500 hours, or three o' clock in the afternoon. "There it is again," Sam pointed to the left side of the screen. Waters rewound the feed several minutes and played it back through at normal speed. This time, everyone could clearly see what Sam was pointing at; a small, sleek silver car.

"Nice car," Peruski whistled, "That's an auto Sunbelt…2540 model I think…"

"Yeah, that's the one," Sam confirmed, "That's also the fifth time it's come down this way. It keeps going back and forth past Sutton Street, slowing down every time it nears us. That's way too many times to be lost…I mean, how brain-dead does a person have to be to not find where they're going on Samson Avenue? I also think that by the second or at least _third_ time, let alone the _fifth_, that person would realize that Sutton Street is _not_ the street they are looking for…but they still keep on passing it and slowing down."

"That _is_ interesting…" Waters nodded in agreement, "But it reveals nothing about the kidnappers. Let's keep looking…see what the rest of the day has to offer."

They didn't have long to wait; once the clock hit 1515 hours, all three of the observers recognized the shiny, unmarked black van used by the kidnappers slowly heading down Samson Avenue. It didn't park on the corner of Samson and Sutton, like the Scullys had said, but it was close; parking instead a small distance up and away from the Sutton Street turnoff.

"Bingo!" Alex snapped his fingers and pointed at the van, "There they are."

"They're not doing anything; keep playing the feed," Sam told the officer.

Waters hit 'play' instead of fast forward, running the camera's feed at normal speed. At first nothing happened. Traffic continued normally, several of the neighbors could be seen out walking their pets on the sidewalk in the distance, and the van stayed right where it was. Ten minutes later, Sam remarked, "Here comes our lost friend again…" as the silver Sunbelt appeared for the sixth time. However, instead of slowing down at Sutton Street before continuing to go on its merry way, it turned _into_ Sutton Street and came to a stop near the corner, right in front of Mr. Peruski's lawn.

A man was standing there, obviously waiting for the car to arrive. The Ambroses noticed him for the first time, realizing that he had been there for the past several minutes. "Who is that…he looks familiar…" Alex murmured.

The car came to a complete halt in front of the waiting man. The back doors opened and two men climbed out. One of them was an older man with graying hair, wearing a pristine black suit. "Rich bastard looks fishy to me…" Peruski observed, throwing in his generous two cents. The other man was more casually dressed. The older man and the man on the sidewalk engaged in conversation for several minutes before parting. The two men from the car returned to the car while the man who had waited on the sidewalk continued down and around the corner of Sutton Street, starting the long walk down Samson Avenue to downtown Riverside.

The car started to move, executing a sharp U-turn and moving back onto Samson Avenue. Instead of leaving, however, the car crossed the avenue onto the shoulder, right next to the kidnappers' van. The older man in the suit got out of the car again. The passenger's door of the van opened as well, and a shaven, black-haired man in his thirties climbed out. The man in the suit was obviously the kidnapper's superior from the way the conversation appeared as they started to talk.

"Bingo again!" Sam crowed, "We have a connection. I _knew_ there was something weird about that car…"

"Rewind the video to when those men in the car were talking to that one guy on the sidewalk…we can get a closer look at Mr. Suit from there," Alex suggested. Waters complied, turning the time back to the conversation between the man in the suit and the man on the sidewalk. "Zoom in on them…" Alex said as the conversation ended and the man on the sidewalk turned away so that he was facing the camera.

The video zoomed in on the two men. Waters focused in on the man in the suit and captured the image, hitting the print button. The printer in the corner of the room whirred to life, depositing a glossy paper with the likeness of the man in the suit on it into the tray.

Suddenly, Alex let out a small gasp. "I remember now!" he exclaimed, pointing to the man who had been on the sidewalk, whose face was finally turned towards the camera, "That's the journalist—that freelance journalist who was writing a documentary-book about Spartans, the one who visited us that one day to ask questions! Bill Collins, that's his name!"

"I remember him…" Sam murmured, "That makes sense…now that I think about it, it _was_ three weeks ago when he visited us…I _told_ you that I didn't trust him," she rounded on her husband, "I _told_ you that people like him always have ulterior motives which we don't know about! And I was right! You think I'm being paranoid now?"

"Never mind…" Alex dismissed the argument with a wave of his hand, "What matters is that we now have a lead; we now have a way to find out who kidnapped Robin..."

"I think it's time _we_ asked Mr. Collins a few questions…" Sam said icily, her tone not betraying her pent-up anger.


	5. Chapter 4: Taken

Chapter Four: Taken

**1800 Hours, August 4, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Unknown Location**

All Robin Ambrose felt at first was the splitting headache in his skull, an aftereffect from the sedative used to subdue him. Gradually, he started to regain his hearing; catching snippets of conversation between several unseen individuals. An incessant humming noise worked its way into his ears; Robin deduced that wherever he was, he was definitely moving. He tried to move, but a wave of nausea threatened to make his stomach disgorge its current contents, so he remained still, losing consciousness once more.

* * *

The second time Robin stirred, his briefest period of consciousness, the hum of the vehicle's engine was a lower pitch and it was still decreasing; the vehicle was slowing down. The vehicle eventually came to a complete stop and the thumps of opening car doors could be heard. A pair of strong hands grabbed hold of the young Ambrose, hauling him out of the car.

The nausea returned at the sudden jerking movements, and this time Robin couldn't suppress it. A stream of bile was forced up his throat and out his mouth, spewing out onto the ground and onto the person who had carried him out of the car. Robin heard someone give a loud shout of disgust and anger. A heavy hand struck the side of his head, causing the eleven-year-old to see stars for a moment before falling unconscious once again.

* * *

"Jesus, Holtz, you didn't have to freakin' _punch_ the kid!" one of the other Shade operatives protested, "He—"

The large, burly man carrying Robin gave a disgusted grunt and gestured angrily at the puddle of unmentionables on the ground and on his trousers. "His father wipes out a third of our team and then this little punk fucking _hurls_ on me, Sanchez!" Holtz exploded, "Pardon me for not giving him a bouquet of roses and a 'Get Well Soon!' card…"

The other operatives remained silent, torn between revenge for their comrades and their morality.

Captain O'Riley climbed out of the passenger seat and silenced them all with a quick glance. "Alright, we're here," the Shade team's CO announced, "Let's get inside. Pacelle, go around back and get some of that thick rope stored in the shed; we'll need it."

"Shouldn't we use chains?" Pacelle argued, "If he _is_ augmented—"

"No," O'Riley shook his head, "Chains break a lot easier than thick, sturdy rope. If we tie it close and tight enough so that he has no leverage, the rope will work better than titanium."

"Should just put a bullet in his brain and be done with it…" Holtz grumbled as the operatives filed into the safehouse; an old, abandoned warehouse somewhere near downtown Philadelphia.

_I'll have to keep an eye on that one_... Captain O'Riley thought to himself, narrowing his eyes at Holtz as the big man entered the safehouse. While Holtz certainly wasn't crazy or insane, he also wasn't the most stable man O'Riley had ever worked with. If he lost control of himself, the consequences could be dire.

O'Riley shut the car door and followed his men into the warehouse, locking the entrance behind him. He strode through the rows of empty boxes and shelves to the flight of stairs, taking them down to the basement. The Shade team had set up their temporary living space in the small storage room of electrical appliances and circuit breakers which made up the basement. The room had been cleared out beforehand. A table had been placed in the center of the room, one wall was lined with an oven, microwave, and a set of cupboards containing rations and supplies for any Insurrectionists—such as the Shade team—who needed to use the safehouse. Bedrolls were spread out on the opposite side of the room for the six commandoes to sleep in.

The operatives dropped their gear on the ground and plopped down at the table. Holtz took the Ambrose boy to the far back corner, dumping him roughly onto the cold, hard concrete before returning to the table with his comrades. Pacelle entered the room last, bearing another length of thick rope from the shed outside. She walked over to the corner and got to work, binding the unconscious boy's arms behind his back and his legs and ankles together, efficiently immobilizing him to a degree.

O'Riley crossed over to one of the cupboards next to the oven and moved aside the food inside, revealing a hidden COM unit which connected directly to the highly secret channel used by United Rebel Front operatives on Earth. O'Riley activated the COM and spoke the code which he was supposed to use after the mission was completed.

The channel was silent for several minutes, but eventually the COM squawked in response. The cool, smooth voice of the man who had engineered the entire mission issued from the COM, saying, "Acknowledgement received, Captain O'Riley. What is your status?"

O'Riley took a quick glance at the survivors of his team before drawing a breath and answering, "Minus three, sir. The mission was botched; Ambrose managed to kill three of my—"

"Do you have the Ambrose child?" O'Riley's superior cut him off, delving straight for the answers.

"Yes, Director."

"Good," the man on the other end purred, "The mission was a success. I will be extracting you in two days time. Sit tight until then. Maintain radio silence, Captain, is that clear?"

"Crystal."

The superior didn't bother answering O'Riley, instead simply killing the channel and ending the conversation there. O'Riley placed the COM back into the cupboard, sighing inwardly to himself. He sat down at the table as well, joining in on the impromptu poker game that was getting started.

Half an hour later, just as the operatives had finished the game and were climbing into their bedrolls, the Ambrose boy, _Robin,_ O'Riley reminded himself of the name, stirred again. The operatives heard him let out a pained groan, turning in time to see him crack open his eyes and take in his surroundings.

"Oh, little freak's awake now. Joy and fucking rapture…" Holtz grumbled from his bedroll next to the corner where Robin was lying.

The eleven-year-old tried to speak, not noticing the duct tape pressed over his mouth until his attempt at speech failed.

"Hm? What? I didn't catch that; speak up!" Holtz taunted the boy, putting on an expression of mock confusion.

"Oh, leave the kid alone, Holtz," Pacelle sighed, rolling her eyes to the heavens, "He's got enough to go through without you helping him along the way."

Robin struggled against his bonds briefly, testing their strength and endurance, before giving up. Instead, he wriggled up into a sitting-up position, resting his back on the wall. Even though his speech was restricted, his eyes told the message perfectly. _Where am I?_

"You're not in the position to ask questions, Freak," Holtz spat, sensing the question as well.

That word, 'freak', Robin must have heard his fair share of it during his lifetime because he reacted to it with surprising speed and strength. His eyebrows met in an angry frown and he lunged at the burly Shade operative, only to be foiled by the bonds on his legs.

Holtz let out a barely audible growl from deep in his throat and grasped the boy's shoulder, hauling him upright only to send him reeling back against the wall with a stinging slap across the face.

"That is _enough_, Mr. Holtz!" O'Riley materialized next to the angered commando, "No manhandling on my watch."

"Manhandling?!" Holtz exclaimed incredulously, "A slap isn't manhandling, just teaching him a lesson in respect," the commando explained, emphasizing his excuse with another blow. The second one caused Robin's left ear to ring.

"Holtz! One more peep out of you, and—"

"And _what_, sir? He _lunged_ at me—" the argument continued for a short while, escalating to the point where Holtz raised his hand to strike Robin a third time.

The eleven-year-old instinctively cringed, bracing for the blow, but it never came. What came instead was the sound of a cocking sidearm. Captain O'Riley had drawn his silenced desert eagle handgun and was aiming it straight between Holtz's eyes. "Stay that hand, Private!" O'Riley barked, "Touch the kid one more time and maybe I'll just have to tell the Director that you had yourself a little freak accident with the police. The Director and the rest of Central Command wish to have the boy delivered alive and _undamaged_. If you continue to harm him like that it falls on _my_ head, and I'll be damned if I get into a shitload of trouble on _your_ behalf."

_Listen to me_...O'Riley mused to himself during his tirade, _Sounding like a Commissar or a Paladin_...

"I don't want you anywhere near him from now on," O'Riley finished, "Am I understood?"

"Yes sir," Holtz replied, effectively cowed.

O'Riley had Holtz move to the other side of the room and give up his weapon, intending to file a full report on the troubled operative's behavior. With that out of the way, the operatives hunkered down into their bedrolls and grabbed some sleep.

Robin had been unconscious since the night before; he couldn't fall asleep to save his life. Awake and alert, unable to move very much or speak, Robin remained motionless in the corner with nothing to do except count the seconds as they ticked by. Gradually, the dim sunlight peeking through the tiny basement window vanished as night fell.

Robin tested the ropes binding him again, giving up any hope of escape afterwards. Whoever had tied them knew what he or she was doing. Even with the strength of a spartan, thick rope isn't something that can just be snapped by flexing and straining. Until he got those ropes off, there was nothing that could possibly be done in the area of escape.

Time seemed to turn to liquid, each second and minute melting into the next until the window started to glow from the sunrise. Robin was deep in thought when the Shade team started to wake up, processing everything that had happened to him so far. He knew he had been kidnapped, but he didn't know why, or who these people were working for. There had to be a very powerful motive; after all, one wouldn't send a team to cross a family of spartans for nothing at all.

Robin was shaken out of his trance by Sanchez, one of the commandoes. "Rise 'n shine, kid."

Captain O'Riley sent Holtz upstairs to start the first shift of watch duty, making sure that nothing entered or tried to enter the warehouse, alerting the rest of the team if they were in any danger. Robin had a feeling that Holtz would be performing that duty frequently, if only to keep him in a different place. O'Riley then opened up the cupboard and removed a box of granola and fruit breakfast bars, tossing one to each of his men. It wasn't much, but the Shade commandoes had run on much less in the past.

O'Riley finished his bar in a few large bites and fished out another one, turning and approaching Robin after he had opened it. The insurrectionist captain knelt down in front of the eleven-year-old. "Do you promise to behave if I take this off?" he pointed to the strip of duct tape covering the boy's mouth. He continued to crouch there, unmoving, when Robin didn't respond to him. Finally, the eleven-year-old gave a slight nod.

"This may hurt a bit," O'Riley warned. He picked at the side of the strip of tape until enough of it came loose, allowing him to get a hold and tear the rest of it off the boy's mouth. Robin winced quietly, but he gave no other indication of how much it had stung. The questions poured out like a river bursting through a dam the moment the tape came off.

O'Riley held up the roll of duct tape, giving the boy a raised eyebrow. Robin fell silent once more, getting the message. "Those questions won't mean much to you if you die of starvation," the captain reasoned, "Eat up."

"You gonna at least let me eat with my hands?" Robin asked the insurrectionist, wriggling his bound wrists.

"Not a chance. Open up."

"Worth a try…" Robin grumbled, opening his mouth and taking a bite off of the breakfast bar O'Riley held out. "So," he said between bites, "Why? Why all this? Who are you and what do you want with me?!"

O'Riley didn't answer, continuing to feed the boy the breakfast bar until it was gone.

"This isn't a ransom; you'd have taken a rich dude if it were…you wouldn't have tied up a normal eleven-year-old like this either, so you must know that I'm like my parents…" the boy's eyes took on a gleam of understanding, and then horror when he figured out what that meant, "That means you _need_ me…_me_, not money or anything, for something…You're never gonna let me go, are you?!"

Captain O'Riley's silence was all the answer Robin needed to hear.

The eleven-year-old really started to flip out at that revelation, struggling with the ropes again and shouting obscenities. "My parents are gonna reach down your throat and pull you inside-out when they find me," Robin spat at the insurrectionist.

O'Riley stretched out the roll of duct tape and cut off a fresh piece, flattening it against the screaming boy's mouth, silencing him. "That's enough talking for today…"

"Thank God…" Werner sighed with relief, himself on the verge of sewing the annoying brat's mouth shut. The others grunted and hummed in agreement.

Captain O'Riley didn't join them. He felt different; the insults didn't anger or even offend him. To his surprise, he realized that some small part of him felt that he _deserved_ them. He was breaking one of the cardinal rules about being a soldier; he was beginning to feel guilty.

_I need a new goddamn job_...the insurrectionist grumbled to himself inwardly. "Quite enough talking for today…" he murmured again, too quiet for anyone else to hear.


	6. Chapter 5: Just a Few Questions

Chapter Five: Just a Few Questions

**1930 Hours, August 5, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Manhattan Island, New York City**

Bill Collins ambled his way down to the corner of 26th and Lexington, turning down Lexington Avenue and starting to walk the last stretch of road to his small city home. The journalist was in higher spirits than usual today; he had finally compiled all of his notes on Spartans into format for his book. There were three possible publishers which he could turn to, of those three one was almost definite.

His book was going forward, and soon he would be the envy of all his co-workers! He was so wrapped up in thought that he nearly bumped right into a streetlight, staggering out of the way at the last second.

Archie Oswald, the old man who ran the newspaper and snack kiosk on Collins's block of Lexington Avenue cocked an eyebrow quizzically, miming the 'drinkie drinkie' hand gesture to the journalist.

"No, Arch, I actually had a _good_ day at work today," Collins explained, tossing the older man two creds.

"Finally get that book of yours published?" Archie asked the journalist, fishing out a weekly newspaper and plopping it down onto the counter.

"Not yet, Arch, that's the _next_ step," Collins snatched up the paper and continued on his way, "Have a good day!"

"Yeah, you too."

Collins continued strolling down Lexington Avenue, tipping his fedora to Mrs. Ruiz, his neighbor. She waved back, sitting down in her rocking chair set out on the porch.

It was the time of day just after the tail-end of rush hour when the city started to yawn and quiet down. The traffic on Lexington Avenue was growing sparse, with only a few sporadic cars and trucks making their way about.

Collins passed the Ruiz's home and reached his own, heading down the short walkway up to the front door. He produced the key from his inner pocket and slid it into the lock, turning it and opening the door. He trudged inside, closing the door behind him, and walked into the living room. He took his shoulder-bag off of his shoulder, dropping it on the floor next to the sofa, and hung his fedora on the hat stand. The curtains were still drawn from earlier that morning, leaving the room in complete darkness, forcing Collins to fumble around the wall with his hand until he found the light switch.

Flicking the switch, the journalist turned the lights on and was greeted with the sight of a familiar brown-haired young man with bright blue eyes sitting in the blue chair opposite the sofa. The expression on his face was unmistakable; he was here for answers. Collins knew all too well what Alex Ambrose could possibly want to talk to him about.

"Oh…shit…"

Collins heard movement behind him and whipped around, coming face to face with Sam Ambrose. Her expression was even fiercer than that of her husband's, making Collins's stomach turn to lead.

"'Oh shit' is right," Sam said in a dangerously quiet voice before she lashed out. The last thing Bill Collins remembered before sinking into darkness was Samantha Ambrose's fist connecting with the side of his head.

* * *

Aching in the dark…Collins felt a lump rising on the side of his head as he came to. He opened his eyes briefly, but closed them again, seeing only blurry forms and shapes. A loud throbbing permeated through his skull, still recovering from the painful blow which he had received.

"He's coming to…" the journalist heard a woman's voice say, followed by footsteps and a sloshing sound. A fist made of icy-cold water splashed into his face, jolting him into full awareness. He was sitting in one of the wooden chairs from the kitchen. His legs were tied to each of the chair's front legs and his hands were bound behind the back of the chair. A dishcloth was tied around his head and stuffed into his mouth, serving as a gag. If he tried hard enough, he probably could have wiggled out, but he didn't even bother considering the option.

Sam Ambrose noticed the train of thought going on inside the journalist's head and drew her old, M6G Magnum sidearm, screwing a customized silencer onto the barrel. "We have a few questions for _you_, now, Mr. Collins," she said, pulling over another wooden chair and sitting down opposite the journalist. "Don't even think about trying to escape or screaming, because if you do…" she waved the magnum dangerously, "We need information from you, but we need you alive. You're smart; you _know_ that. But I know dozens of ways to make you sing like a bird without killing you. I could partially paralyze one of your arms," she pointed the magnum to a point on Collins's right upper arm, "That should make typing and writing interesting for you…I could give you a permanent limp," she moved the barrel down from the shoulder to the journalist's kneecap, "prevent you from having kids…" Sam aimed the pistol between Collins's legs.

He was really starting to sweat now, making imperceptible grunts and noises behind the dishcloth as he tried, and failed, to speak.

"I think he's ready," Alex Ambrose materialized next to his wife, who was still brandishing her pistol. Collins knew that she absolutely _longed_ to use it; he could see it in her eyes. Alex Ambrose seemed to be the one thing preventing her from fulfilling her dreams. If he didn't satisfy Alex, he knew would be done for…

"Now, Mr. Collins," Alex crouched down in front of the frightened journalist, "You seemed like a perfectly nice guy when I met you. I know that you're capable of being civilized, so I ask you this; will you _act_ civilized and tell us what we want to know if we take this out?" he tapped the gag.

Collins nodded so fast his head was almost a blur. Alex reached around the journalist's head and untied the dish cloth, taking it out of his mouth and allowing him to speak.

"They made me do it!" Collins exclaimed the moment his tongue was free, "They broke in here and held me up, exactly the way you're doing it now, and they—"

"Mr. Collins, _civilized_, please," Ambrose advised. Sam continued to stare down at the bound man, her expression unchanged. "Now, let's get down to brass tacks. Our son Robin, as I'm sure you've already assumed, was kidnapped two days ago. Through use of a security system installed in one of my neighbors' homes, we got a visual of the kidnappers and someone working in tandem with them. The men working _with_ the kidnappers didn't contact the kidnappers themselves until _after_ they contacted a man on the sidewalk. We know that man was _you_, Mr. Collins. This is your one chance to give us answers," Alex said as he reached into the long duffel bag he had been carrying across his back, pulling out a glossy photograph of a familiar man. "Do you know who this is?"

Mr. Collins's breath caught in his throat when he saw the picture. It was the man in the suit, the one whom he had contacted before and after his recon/interview at the Ambroses' home. He was the engineer of the entire plot. "Yes, I do," the journalist croaked, "_He_ was the one who forced me to—"

Sam cocked her pistol nonchalantly, starting to hum. Collins gulped and fell silent.

"Who is he?" Alex asked the journalist.

"I don't know much about him. All I can glean from him is from the two times I've actually met him. The first time was in a warehouse in Philadelphia, their nearest safehouse I'm assuming, and the second time was on your street. No one ever addressed him by name; they all called him 'Director'. The one thing I _do_ know about him, and all of the people who took your son, is that they're Insurrectionists from the United Rebel Front."

That made even Sam blink in surprise. After all, the insurrectionists hadn't been seen since the war; everyone assumed they had either splintered or died out, but now that no longer seemed to be the case.

"You helped _insurrectionists_?!" Sam exclaimed, "That makes you a kidnapper _and_ a traitor, my friend, and do you know what I do with traitorous scheming scumbags like yourself?" she posed the question, jamming the barrel of the magnum under Collins's chin.

"Put the gun _down_, Sam!" Alex snapped, "It's slightly easier to get information from Mr. Collins himself, not his corpse."

Sam regained control and let out a long breath, backing up and giving her husband the floor.

"Tell me why they wanted our son," Alex asked Collins his next question.

"I don't know," Collins mumbled, "The Director kept mentioning that it was something to do with an operation or plan of theirs. Not a small mission, mind you, I'm talking about a huge plan, maybe engineered by their Central Command. I don't think your son is the only or even main element in that plan, but he may play a crucial part in its instigation."

Alex nodded, filing away the information for later. It wasn't much, but it was more than he or Sam ever had hope of finding elsewhere. "That is all we need, Mr. Collins. If we were smart or vengeful we would kill you right now to cover up our footsteps. But, because I am a _reasonable_ man, I will give you a chance. Tell me your story."

Collins gulped again nervously, searching for the right words. "They came to me during the night…much like you just did today…there were two of them. One of them held me while the other pointed a gun at me, threatening to kill me if I didn't cooperate. The insurrectionists knew of my plan to write a documentary book, and they also knew it gave me a perfect excuse to see you and your family in person. They said that I would get my book and they would get your son, so everyone won. I didn't want to die; I was a combat correspondent during the war. I saw a ton of action, and I never really stopped trying to survive since then. So if someone broke into my home, threatening to kill me, then gave me a way out, I _took_ it. Life's too sweet for me to part with it after fighting so hard _for_ it. Anyway, they sent me to your home and told me to conduct my interview. The one thing they wanted was this; they wanted to know whether or not your son received your genetic augmentations. He did, so that's what I told them. I didn't know of their intentions until the Director contacted me on the sidewalk on your street. By then, there was nothing I could do, no way for me to find them. There was also no way for me to go to the authorities; they said they were watching me, and they _were_. Every so often I would catch glimpses of men following me down the street, observing me through cars…even—"

As if on cue, there was the muffled _zing_ of a silenced gunshot accompanied by the sound of breaking glass. A sniper rifle round punched a hole straight through the window and curtains and tore into the wooden chair right between Collins's legs, barely missing him.

"Sam, get him to cover!" Alex exclaimed, diving over to his duffel bag. He opened it and dumped out the parts to his own sniper rifle, assembling them in less than five seconds. He rolled over to the window as Sam moved the journalist, still in his chair, away from the long window.

"How did he know where to shoot?" Sam asked what everyone was thinking, "There's no way to see past the curtain!"

"He must have thermal imaging on his scope," Alex hissed, "Now stay quiet!" He gripped the curtains and flung them open, opening the windows with the crank in the wall next to him. Based on the trajectory and angle of the bullet when it had come through the window, Alex already knew where to look; the tall hotel building several blocks away; an impressive shot at such a distance for a normal marksman, but cake for Alex. He shouldered his rifle and checked through the target building's balconies one by one and found the sniper just as he finished packing up his rifle and was ducking through the doors. "Damn…" Ambrose murmured, disassembling his rifle once more and packing it away into his duffel bag.

"You know who that was?" Sam gripped the journalist's chair and turned him upright.

"It's them, the insurrectionists," Collins sighed, "I told you; they are watching me. Giving you information obviously isn't something they liked me doing."

"You mentioned a safehouse in Philadelphia; is that where they're taking Robin?!" Sam jumped right back into the interrogation.

"It would make sense," Collins shrugged, "But don't bother. If he _is_ there right now, he'll be gone in a few hours; you'll never make it. But...I have one last thing to tell you, something that could help you a great deal, but I want your word that you'll let me go if I tell you what it is."

Sam started to protest, but Alex cut her off, turning back to the journalist and giving him a nod.

"They had a ship, a prowler, in Philadelphia; it was parked in a private hangar in the outskirts of town. I was taken aboard it briefly during my first meeting with the Director before he took me to the safehouse. While I was on board, I managed to plant a prototype neutron radiation tracker on their ship. The specific class of neutron radiation it emits is undetectable to their ship's sensors, but if I can interface with a ship's console or an AI, I can pinpoint the location of the tracker as long as it's still in the same star system. Once their ship jumps to slipspace to their destination, we could be able to follow their slipspace wake and—"

"Okay," Alex nodded, "We've heard enough…how did you get equipment like that?"

"I still have contacts in the military; one of them gave me the tracker from the ONI labs as a belated birthday present last year…talk about crazy…"

Sam drew her combat knife and cut through the bonds holding Collins to the chair, but grabbed hold of him once he tried to move away. "We said we'd let you go, and we have; we let you go out of the chair."

"That sniper shot clearly demonstrated that you are now a hunted man, Mr. Collins, so I now present you a choice," Alex calmly told the journalist, "You can stay here and get killed by another, more successful assassination attempt, or you can come with us and live. Your call."

The journalist, whose survival instincts had never quite faded away since the war, recognized the pathway out of his situation which the Ambroses were presenting him with. Without hesitation, he took it. "I'll go with you."

"If they are leaving Earth in a matter of hours, you are right; we have no chance of catching up with them. You also said the only way to follow them will be going through their slipspace wake…" Alex reasoned, "So now we need a ship."

"Which are nearly impossible to get for private use. You'll need to deal with their crew, but then that will raise tons of questions from the UNSC and…well, you get the idea. This plan is a lot more complex than—"

"Not quite…" Sam, remembering someone she and Alex knew who privately owned and kept a ship from the war. A ship which the UNSC wouldn't detect or notice unless they were specifically searching for it, which they definitely _weren't_. The government would first have to know about its existence to be able to search for it.

Alex nodded, knowing what his wife was getting at, a smile creeping over his face. "I think it's time we visited an old friend...I'll get the car ready. Sam, give him a call."

Sam waited for Alex to leave the house before grabbing hold of Collins as he moved to follow. She leaned in close so that no one else had a chance of hearing her words. "You helped those men take my son. I don't care how or why, but the fact is that you helped them. You had better get down on your knees and _pray_ that nothing happens to him," she whispered to him in a perilously quiet tone, "You are on thin fucking ice, my friend...and _I'll_ be the one under it when it breaks. Now go," she released the journalist, who ducked out of the house faster than the speed of light.

Sam started to leave the house as well, closing the door behind her. She got out her cell phone and started to dial.

* * *

Polaris's Roadstop was a mechanical service center located down the road from the AMG Car Dealership in the town of Clearwater, Florida. It was named after Polaris, the mechanics' beloved AI which had taken up residence in mechanical compound's garages. Polaris had been a shipboard smart AI for a marathon-class cruiser named the _Breath of Winter_ during the war, but after the war's end he had decided to settle down and work in this chop shop as a form of 'retirement'. He kept the power and electricity running smoothly, helped the mechanics out with problems they had, and did many other jobs which made their lives easier.

Floyd Wilson was one of the mechanics working the Monday evening shift. He had started an hour ago and was tackling the faulty engine of a civilian warthog. The engine kept on cutting out every time the ignition was turned. Wilson had checked out the battery and the hydrogen fuel source, but they had come up clean. It was probably a defective spark plug, or a crossed circuit, but before the mechanic delved any further into the engine, he was taking a small beer break.

He got up from his spot on the floor and headed towards the hallway entrance on the other side of the huge garage, passing the large red Treadmark Hybrid pickup truck parked in the spot next to his warthog. The head mechanic was on his back on one of the scooters—small wooden platforms with wheels which mechanics laid on so that they could more easily move around while inspecting the belly of a vehicle—and was busy inspecting the exhaust pipe and oiling the truck's axels. Only his feet were visible from under the truck. "Hey, I'm taking a quick ten, that okay?" Wilson asked the head mechanic as he stepped over him, continuing on towards the back of the garage.

"Yeah, aight," the head mechanic replied, "Just make sure you finish up with that warthog before we close or before you start seeing two of everything, whichever comes first."

Wilson grunted in the affirmative and ducked into the hallway which ran throughout the rest of the compound, connecting with the other three garages and the rec room in the center. He walked into the rec room, nodding to the other mechanics lounging on the couches, and crossed straight over to the fridge. He opened it and grabbed a bottle of Tungsten Lite beer from the bottom shelf.

He opened it, taking a few thirsty gulps, and relaxed, leaning against the counter. He relaxed there for a few minutes before hearing a polite _ahem_ from somewhere next to him. He cracked open his eyes turned to face his disturber; a one-foot-tall holographic detective wearing an almost stereotypical tan trench coat, gray fedora, and a pair of spectacles over his eyes. He had a kind face with a larger nose and a full head and beard of salt and pepper hair. It was Polaris, appearing in his preferred avatar.

"Pardon me, Mr. Wilson, but I have a call for your garage," the AI stated.

"Why come to me?" Wilson asked the AI, "I'm the newbie here."

"All of the other mechanics from your garage are currently occupied with their work; you are the only one on break and therefore the one most available to take a phone-call," Polaris answered, his logic irrefutable as always.

Wilson sighed and gave the AI a nod. Polaris conjured up a holographic telephone out of thin air and pressed it to Wilson's ear. Although Wilson felt nothing, the holographic phone acted exactly as a normal one would; the voice came out of the top speaker and he was able to talk into the bottom one. This was the first time Wilson had seen Polaris do this, but he had heard stories from the other grease-monkeys that the AI was capable of working wonders with his technology.

"Hello?" Wilson spoke into the receiver, "This is Floyd Wilson, thank you for calling Polaris's Roadstop. Polaris tells me you have an issue with the garage I work in, so how may I help you?"

"I don't have an issue with your garage; I want to speak with your boss. Is he in?" the woman on the other end asked Wilson, giving him her name.

"Yeah he's in…hold on a second," Wilson gestured with his head for Polaris to follow him. He headed out into the hallway and back into his garage, cautiously approaching the red pickup truck which the head mechanic was working under.

"Yo Boss! Polaris has a call for you!" Wilson called out to his boss, "Someone named Sam Ambrose, whoever that is. She said it's important."

The head mechanic pushed himself out from under the truck, standing up. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in his late twenties. He wore the dark blue mechanic's uniform, but had torn off the sleeves, exposing his extremely muscular arms. He definitely ranked one or two in Wilson's list of the top ten people he wouldn't want to be in a fight with.

"Thanks, Floyd, now get back to work. I'll take this here, Polaris," Tyrone gave his signature smile full of white teeth, taking the holographic phone and putting it to his ear.


	7. Chapter 6: A Disturbance in the Office

Chapter Six: A Disturbance in the Office

**1645 Hours, August 7, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Days Later)  
Earth, Sol System**

**Riverside, New York**

Officer Waters wasn't at all nervous when he was called into the police chief's office. If anything, he was surprised it hadn't happened sooner.

"Alright, Waters, talk to me," Chief Huxley said the moment Waters opened the door. The officer closed the door and sat down in one of the chairs in front of the chief's desk. The other chair was occupied by a thin, pale man clad in black casual clothes.

"About what, sir?" Waters asked Chief Huxley innocently.

"You tell me, Bob," the chief leaned forward, steepling his fingers, "The Ambroses left suddenly two days ago and we haven't seen them since. They were material witnesses in this case and _you_ were the last one to have contact with them."

"They probably followed up on the lead we got on that freelance journalist who they identified on that old man's security archives," Waters guessed, correctly as it turned out.

Chief Huxley cocked an eyebrow, confirming Waters's speculation. "The NYPD raided the home of Bill Collins in Manhattan only to find it empty. There was a bullet hole in the glass of the living room window, and signs of forced entry, but no blood. I'll go out on a limb here and believe that it was the Ambroses who did that. And now our two material witnesses are gone, _as well as_ our only lead."

"They haven't made contact with us, I'm assuming?" Waters asked the chief, who this time shook his head.

"Nope, nothing from them…but I _did_ receive something very interesting; a message from the UNSC High Command. This is why I've called you in here. HighCom barely ever has anything to do with law enforcement agencies like ourselves except in times of war, so you have an idea how unusual this is already," Huxley trailed off. He cleared his head, getting his facts together, and gestured to the man sitting in the other chair, "Bob, this is Colonel Angiers, an ONI spook—_official_," Huxley corrected himself when the other man gave him a quick glare at the universal nickname for ONI operatives.

Officer Waters eyed Angiers up. He wasn't surprised that the colonel was an ONI spook; he had their look. It was difficult to explain, but most ONI personnel could be identified because of their 'look'; an aura of sorts, an air of mystery about them…sort of like a quiet whisper…it was hard to explain.

"I could tell you the story, but I think it would be better to hear it from him," Huxley sat back and relaxed in his chair, gesturing for the ONI official to speak.

The spook got right down to business, asking Officer Waters his name, age, date and place of birth, and several other personal questions to verify that it was indeed Robert Waters whom he was talking to. "Please excuse the paranoia," the spook said after he finished questioning the policeman, satisfied with Waters's answers, "It comes with the job. What I am about to say to you is classified information, and it is _not_ to leave this room. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Waters nodded, much more interested in what Angiers had to say now.

The spook started to speak. "Yesterday, HighCom was contacted by the _Day of Wrath_, one of the Navy's frigates, commanded by a Captain Anatoly Raemius. She slipped in-system and headed straight here, to Earth, requesting priority-one clearance to speak with Fleet Admiral Emerson. Situations like that barely ever arise, so whatever it was it had to be important. Emerson granted the request. According to the crew of that frigate, they had encountered a hostile presence in the Herculis System made up of ships from the United Rebel Front. _Insurrectionists_. The troubling fact is that the insurrectionists' ships were _not_ stolen UNSC vessels; they were independently made and fitted. The URF appears to have the capability to manufacture their own ships, implying that they are now much more dangerous than we originally thought."

"So they really _aren't_ all dead…" Waters murmured.

"There were also reports of an alien presence there as well; two ships of a completely unknown classification or species…" the spook fumbled around in his shoulder-bag and drew out an 8x10 photograph showing two alien ships. They were of a golden hue and had a rough cone-like shape. The spook was right; those aliens were completely unknown. "This image was captured by the _Day of Wrath's_ shipboard AI at the order of the captain, a wise move on Raemius's part. We have absolutely no documentation or record of ever sighting ships like those in the past."

"So you're saying that the insurrectionists now have an alliance with an unknown alien species?" Waters asked the spook, trying to sort out the mountains of information into organized stacks.

Angiers gave a tentative nod. "The frigate's AI also captured several minutes of communication between the insurrectionists and those aliens. It has been confirmed that they are indeed working together. Also…those communications revealed plans to attack UNSC space…we may have another large-scale war on our hands if those transmissions prove true. The reason I am here is that, from what we could glean from those communications, the insurrectionists mentioned the name _Ambrose_ several times. They were referencing Alexander and Samantha Ambrose and their son Robin…who if I'm not mistaken live in this town, correct?"

"They did, but—"

Angiers held up his hand, quelling Officer Waters. "There's something you must know, first. During the war, the Ambroses were—"

"Some sort of special ops," Waters interrupted, "Everyone in the town's pretty much guessed already."

The spook cocked an eyebrow, waiting for the police officer to finish. "The Ambroses were _Spartans_, Mr. Waters. They were part of a company of 330 children augmented at a young age. They fought in the First and Second Battles of Earth, where most of them perished. Only thirty-two of the original 330 are still alive today, all of them spread out all over the colonies. The Ambroses were part of one of the best teams in their company."

Officer Waters's mouth hung open, the policeman was utterly speechless. Spartans?! How in hell could the Ambroses, people who everyone had known and lived alongside for a decade, be _Spartans_, the legendary titans of the battlefields of the Human-Covenant War? _But_…on the other hand…the more that the policeman really thought about it, the more it actually made some sort of sense.

After all, no conventional branch of the military would have allowed mere children to fight for it in the war; the sheer concept of it was sickening. But then ONI was no conventional military branch. If they found a distant, isolated place…maybe a few hundred orphans pissed at having their world glassed…and then cloaked it in secrecy and classification, then they could have definitely augmented and trained adolescents.

Even so, the fact that two of those legendary spartans had been living in his town and no one even knew about it had really blown his mind.

"Ah, so you didn't know?" the spook grinned, "It seems the only other person in this town who knew was a Mister Albert 'Alley' Garris, a retired marine, and it also seems that he told no one either. Interesting…but irrelevant. The fact of the matter is, we have reason to believe that the insurrectionists plan on using the Ambroses' son to help further their plans. What his exact purpose will be, however, is unknown, but whatever it is it cannot be too—"

"He doesn't know?" Waters exclaimed.

"You know the most of what happened; this is where _you_ come in, Bob," Huxley gestured for Angiers to listen.

"Is there something I am unaware of?" the spook's eyebrows ventured suspiciously. He was _always_ the source of intel; to have something dictated to him which he had no knowledge of unsettled him.

Waters gave a wry grin; it was rare to be the one giving _ONI_ the briefing. His grin lasted only a split-second, though, as he was reminded himself of what he was telling the spook. "Uh…sir…the thing is that…well…two days ago, Robin Ambrose was abducted."

"What?!" the ONI spook exploded, "Abducted? You didn't think this was worth mentioning _earlier_?!"

"With all due respect," Huxley chimed in, coming to his subordinate's defense, "We had no knowledge that the insurrectionists even _existed_ until yesterday, and we also had no idea that the Ambroses were _Spartans_ until _now_. There was no reason to believe that this abduction was any different from any other kidnapping."

Angiers calmed down, seeing the sense in Chief Huxley's argument. "Very well…but nevertheless, you can see the position that puts us in? I need to see Alexander and Samantha Ambrose, and _now_."

"That's the other thing," Waters sighed, "We discovered a lead which linked the insurrectionists to the kidnapping, and they followed it to Manhattan Island in New York City. They got there before the local police could…and they haven't contacted us since then. They took the lead with them and we have no idea where they are right now."

The spook didn't burst into another rage; this time he relaxed back into his chair and rubbed his temples wearily. "I need to think for a second…" the spook murmured, "If those kidnappers are insurrectionists, they'll definitely be taking the Ambrose child off-planet and into their space, wherever it is. Once that happens, the boy is doomed; we'll have no possible way to track them…unless…" the spook stopped massaging his temples and sat up, ideas stirring around in his brain, "Regardless of whether or not they've found a way, the Ambroses will need a ship to follow those insurrectionists, and they _know_ that! I worked with them during the Battle of Kiev and their team leader, a Spartan named Tyrone-G083, saved my life several times during that engagement…for that, I gave him any favor he wanted at the war's end. He asked for a smart AI from one of our cruisers—it was at the very end of its life anyway and was about to be decommissioned in a matter of days—and I _also_ allowed him to keep his ship."

"You _gave_ this person a military AI? Isn't that illegal?" Chief Huxley asked the spook, curious at his revelation.

"Well, yes it was, but the cruiser it operated from had already gotten rid of it. It was about to be put down, but Tyrone asked specifically for that one, so it wasn't particularly difficult to slip it out of the ONI labs. But all that is _also_ irrelevant; what matters is the _ship_. He still _has_ that ship. Think about it from the Ambroses' perspective; you need a ship to rescue your son, and _fast_. Acquiring a recreational vessel would take way too long, maybe even years. Buying one is out of the question; their prices are through the roof. They could have used their military connections to acquire a prowler or some other small craft, but there would be crew and personnel on board which would object to chasing after insurrectionists. They could always deal with troublesome crewmembers, but that would spark the attention of the entire UNSC and turn them into fugitives. But consider this; their former team leader and friend still privately owns a ship which he has kept ever since the war's end. It would cost nothing and would be the best option given their time-constraint. Also, the government has no idea that it even exists, so that eliminates the UNSC as a hindrance. Even though that ship is small, it has slipspace capability, so they could easily follow the insurrectionists with it."

"It makes sense…where _is_ this Tyrone individual?" Huxley asked the spook once he was done voicing his train of thought.

"He lives in Florida, in a town called Clearwater. He runs a mechanical center, and that's also where he keeps his ship," the spook replied.

"I can contact the police department in that area and—"

"No," Angiers held up a hand, silencing the Riverside police chief, "I'll handle this personally. We shouldn't be arresting the Ambroses; they are our best chance of getting Robin Ambrose back. What we _should_ do is follow them and call in the cavalry when things go south. I will be going to Florida, but I have no intention of going alone. Mr. Huxley, I would like your man Waters to accompany me. He won't be needed in the investigation any longer; there is nothing more to uncover."

Now it was Chief Huxley and Officer Waters' turn to be taken aback. "Why me?" Waters implored the ONI officer, "Surely there are more appropriate individuals to be had from the military who could—"

"I'm not fighting a war here," Angiers cut Waters off, "But you make your point. I will also bring the retired Sergeant Albert Garris and one Lance Corporal Archibald Peruski, who also has military training and lives in this area, but I still intend to bring you as well, Mr. Waters. If you agree to accompany me, I will tweak your jurisdiction settings and make them universal, Level Two. You would have authority in any place and on any planet. It would certainly help move things along more smoothly without me blowing my cover. I also want you because you have worked with and trained under Alex Ambrose during your years in the academy. You know him better than any of us. What's it going to be?"

Officer Waters considered his options for a few minutes, weighing the pros and cons together. Alex Ambrose had done a lot for him in the academy. Where he probably would have been washed out normally, Ambrose had helped him get back onto his feet. He was the main reason why Waters was wearing the uniform today.

On the other hand, Bob Waters had built himself a good life in Riverside. He had been married for fourteen years and had three children, all of them in elementary school; was it worth risking all of that to help a good friend?

Perhaps not…but Officer Waters knew he would never be able to sleep at night ever again if he stayed, plagued by the notion that, in a friend's time of need, he had done nothing.

And Robert Waters was a man who enjoyed his sleep.

"I'm in."


	8. Chapter 7: Thinking Means Trouble

Chapter Seven: Thinking Means Trouble

**1900 Hours, August 7, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Insurrectionist Safehouse, Philadelphia**

Captain O'Riley had received the transmission from the hidden COM in the cupboard several minutes ago. The message was simple: proceed to the extraction point for pick-up. The Director had cleared their prowler and was now waiting for them at the exfil point outside of the city.

"Alright, boys, time to go!" he hollered to the other operatives, who were now playing their thousandth round of blackjack, 21, or whatever name that card game went by these days. Sanchez gathered up the cards and Holtz straightened up the table. Ibrahimi, who had been upstairs on watch, clambered down into the basement and joined in the clean-up. Gradually, the Shade team erased all evidence that they had ever been there. That done, each operative gathered up their bedroll and headed up the stairs, packing their things into the car parked outside.

"I'll be right up!" O'Riley called up to his team once everything was ready to go. The officer opened up the cupboard and removed the COM unit, pocketing it so that no potential intruders or wanderers could find it if they just so happened to stumble upon this place.

He then turned to Robin Ambrose, who was curled up in his corner, sleeping. The position was somewhat awkward, having both hands tied behind his back, but somehow he managed. He hadn't spoken a word since his outburst two days ago. O'Riley had even removed the duct tape covering his mouth, but the eleven-year-old still refused to speak. He accepted food and drink, but he still said nothing, showing no emotion. His eyes had become unfocused and dull and his face was an expressionless mask. He had been like that for two days, so O'Riley had good reason to be surprised when he opened his mouth and started to speak.

The captain grabbed hold of the boy, waking him, and started to pick him up.

"So why do _you_ do it?" Robin murmured after a yawn, startling O'Riley. His voice was hoarse and cracked from two days of disuse, but the tone was clear; bitter resignation.

"Hm, you're talking now?" O'Riley hoisted Robin up in his arms and started moving towards the stairs, "Why does any soldier do what he's asked? For the good of the—"

"Don't give me that," Robin snapped, his voice suddenly resentful and spiting, "Since when is kidnapping children for the good of _any_ self-respecting government or nation? Why are you an insurrectionist, why are you _against_ the UNSC? Is it because you disagree with their methods? Something along those lines?"

O'Riley said nothing at first, climbing the stairs into the warehouse in silence. "The UNSC is aggressive and imperialist. They wouldn't listen to us in the beginning, when we were just peaceful protestors. No, it takes violence, a potential war to get them to listen, and even then, they paid attention to us with the intention of destroying us. They created you Spartans _before_ they started the war with the Covenant; the Spartans' original purpose was to bring _us_ down, not the Covenant—"

"Hold it, back up," Robin interrupted, "When _we_ started the war with the Covenant? Are you serious?! Three words for you, buddy: Battle-of-Harvest; ring a bell?"

O'Riley's forehead contorted in a confused frown, not recognizing the name. "Battle of what?"

"Harvest! H-a-r-v-e-s-t; Harvest!" Robin cocked an eyebrow, seeing his bearer's blank expression, "You really don't know _anything_ about the war, do you? I bet you were _told_ by your people that the UNSC started the war; you never bothered to find out yourself. I'd bet that if you ever went to a library or someplace where you come from, you'd find that information mysteriously missing."

"There _are_ no libraries where I come from…the United Rebel Front doesn't exactly encourage individuality and free thought…there are better, more useful tasks to be completed before we can have those luxuries."

"Yeah," the eleven-year-old snorted, "I bet that's what they told you _during_ the war, and now that _that_ is over, you've all got yourselves a whole _new_ brace of 'tasks'. Let me tell you something; I'm not so naïve as to say that the UNSC is white-lily innocent. Your people, you insurrectionists have always lived, breathed, and existed on the basis of believing that you were better than the UNSC, that the original government was corrupt and something worth resisting. You think the UNSC's methods were horrible?" Robin posed the rhetorical question to O'Riley, who was nearing the warehouse entrance, "Well I've got news for you; the moment you dragged me into that van, you proved that you and your government is just as bad, even worse than mine. The UNSC did what it had to do to try to _prevent_ an all-out war with you rebels…then when the Covenant attacked _us_, every questionable, immoral deed which the UNSC committed they did to save Humanity, they did it for self-preservation in the face of extinction. Your government is doing the exact same thing now, but what's your excuse? Are you faced with annihilation? No; up until now we had no idea that you still even _existed_. You weren't even being _attacked_. Your leaders are doing this for their own selfish desires and—"

"That's quite enough!" O'Riley barked at the young Ambrose, "I liked you better when you were a silent shell, boy; your tongue will only earn you more pain and punishment where you're going. Learn to control it or I'll tape it over for the rest of our trip!"

Robin fell silent as he was carried outside and thrown into the large black car's trunk. As O'Riley slammed the trunk door down, the last thing he saw was a satisfied smile tugging at the corners of the boy's mouth.

_Damn him_...O'Riley swore to himself. The kid had just taken every uncertainty of his life in the URF which he had labored for years and years to bury and forget, and he had thrown them back in his face. The young Ambrose knew that there was no possible way to talk his way out of his predicament, but if his goal had been to unsettle Captain O'Riley, he had been successful.

Ever since his earliest days in indoctrination school on his home planet of Hyndareus far away in URF-controlled space, Liam O'Riley had been taught to despise the UNSC, he had been raised to believe that every problem in society was its fault. As a child, he had been gifted with, if not a good sense of right and wrong, a strong sense of logic. Logically, he had reasoned, the problems in society could not possibly _all_ be the fault of a government; most would have to be the faults of the people; indifferent citizens who didn't have the inspiration or motivation to better their situation. Were the insurrectionists so different? After all, wouldn't the amount of death, chaos, and destruction caused by their decades-old crusade against the UNSC have been the fault of the insurrectionists themselves for not seeking a peaceful resolution?

He made the mistake of presenting this argument to his classmaster when he was ten years old. He had been taken to a military facility deep underground someplace nearby his home and he had been beaten and starved for a full week until something inside of him broke or weakened mentally, because O'Riley had never questioned the authority, motives, or methods of the United Rebel Front after that incident. He had been thoroughly indoctrinated, along with the rest of the insurrectionist youth.

And here he now was, operating as one of its most useful and trusted assets; a Shade team leader. But now, a lifetimes-worth of certainties and values had been shattered, brought down like a house made of playing cards, by the bitter words of an eleven-year-old child who was starting to make him _think_ again…and that put O'Riley on edge. Thinking meant trouble, thinking meant punishment; it was best not to think at all, best to simply carry out one's orders to the letter. If your superior tells you to blow up a building, you blow up that building. If your superior tells you to assassinate an official, you assassinate that official. If your superior orders you to kidnap an eleven-year-old, then, God damn it all, you _kidnap_ that eleven-year-old!

"Something on your mind, sir?" the subtly accented voice of Omar Ibrahimi jerked Captain O'Riley out of his well of thoughts. Half an hour had passed and the view of the city had been replaced by one of open fields. They were close to the extraction point.

"No…nothing…" O'Riley murmured. He twisted around in his seat and rapped the soundproof transparent aluminum barrier separating the front seats from the rest of the car. Pacelle gave him an 'okay' nod. He turned back and gazed out through his window. "No one can hear anything through that glass, right?" the captain asked Ibrahimi, who was next to him, driving the vehicle.

"It's transparent aluminum, not glass," Ibrahimi corrected the captain, "But yes, it's completely soundproof."

"I _do_ have something on my mind, Omar…_this_," O'Riley stated.

"Sir?" Ibrahimi gave his commander a quick sideways glance.

"This whole thing," O'Riley gestured all around himself, "Kidnapping an innocent child. We've done snatches before, but they were all military or other dangerous targets. This is different…this _feels_ different…I've watched every member of this Shade Team for months now, Omar. You want to know one thing I've noticed? When Alex Ambrose killed Wells, Moreau, and Stracci back in Riverside, no one seemed to care very much. Sure, the others were put out by the loss of a comrade, but they weren't touched by the loss of a fellow person…has indoctrination really made us all that detached? You were always different from the others, Omar. Tell me, and answer me honestly; I swear to you that this conversation won't leave this vehicle. Have you ever had misgivings about what we do? What if you realized and discovered something that revealed that everything you had been taught as a child may have all been a lie?"

Ibrahimi said nothing at first, keeping a steady eye on the road as he executed a hairpin turn on the winding road they were driving down. "I never really agreed with everything our government has done ever since I was a boy," the Egyptian man declared finally, "I hated that feeling, that uncertainty…I tried to banish it. I kept telling myself that what the government wanted was for the best of all so much that I think I actually started believing it…I had to have, otherwise I wouldn't be a Shade commando right now…maybe I joined the spec ops to prove myself right, only…as a Shade, I've killed, abducted, assassinated, and caused enough havoc and destruction that, more and more often than not, I find myself genuinely pondering the state of my karma. I could say that I was just following orders, but is that honestly a passable excuse? No…everyone who does things like these _chooses_ to do it…even if there are dire, _dire_ consequences for refusing, one still chooses to comply," Ibrahimi explained, "I think this is a dangerous line of discussion and that it is best left alone for now, sir." He fell silent as the extraction point, a wide open field of grass, came up on the right. The Director's prowler was in the center of the field, waiting for O'Riley and his men. Ibrahimi turned the vehicle and drove off the road, plowing into the field.

O'Riley nodded in agreement, catching sight of the silhouette of the Director, perched on the loading ramp of the prowler. "I suppose you're right. Even so…I think my time of doing these missions is coming to an end. I simply cannot justify my actions to myself any longer; this mission crossed my line…Not a _word_ of this to anyone else, you understand?" O'Riley said sharply, his tone of voice changing drastically as Ibrahimi drew to car to a stop in front of the prowler.

"Understood, sir," Ibrahimi replied. The driver killed the engine and the two men opened their doors, climbing out of the car. The other four operatives in the back of the car followed suit, all of them filing onto the prowler, giving respectful nods to the Director as they passed him, until O'Riley was left alone next to the car.

The thin, middle-aged man in the suit known as the Director scrutinized the Shade officer with the eyes of a critical hawk. "Something irking you, Captain O'Riley?" the Director asked the commando, taking note of his movements and expression, "You seem a bit off…you haven't been growing a conscience during this mission, have you?"

_Shit_, O'Riley mentally swore again, fixing his posture and wiping his face clean of emotion. "No, sir, I'm not paid to grow a conscience," he replied evenly, walking around to the trunk of the car, popping it open.

The Director cracked a cold grin, one which did not reach his eyes. "See to it that it remains that way…the Paladins are always looking for new individuals to arrest and process."

O'Riley remained silent, reaching into the trunk and lifting out Robin Ambrose who, to the captain's great relief, didn't say a word.

"So _this_ is the fruit of all our labors…" the Director inspected the child as if he were a lab rat, "I expected him to be rather taller…" he gave a slight shrug, "It matters not. You are going to make the United Rebel Front very happy, my boy," the Director said to Robin as O'Riley carried him up the ramp and into the belly of the prowler, "A new age is coming very soon, and _you_ shall be one of its builders."

"You seriously think I'm gonna help you?" Robin sneered at the older man, his voice dripping with defiance, "Thanks, but I'll pass."

The ship jolted slightly as its engines engaged, propelling the prowler into the air. The hull groaned slightly as it adjusted to the pressure changes of moving from a pressurized planet surface to the vacuum of space.

"Entering the slipstream in four…three…two…" a voice stated over the ship-wide COM system, followed by the loud rushing sound which signaled a slipspace jump, then silence.

The Director returned his attention to the trussed up eleven-year-old, giving the boy another emotionless smile. "I think we'll be the judge of that. You may not be so bold after the Paladins are through with you…you have steel, son; you seem like you'll be a very tough nut to crack. That's good; the Paladins always fancy a challenge…enjoy your time here, boy; it will be the last peace you will have for a long time. Captain, take him to his cryo-pod and put him under, then report to the bridge."

O'Riley turned and strode off down one of the corridors towards the prowler's small cryo-chamber, fulfilling his orders. The Director continued on his way towards the bridge, muttering something dark about politics.

As the prowler continued to venture through the slipstream, the small, fist-sized prototype rad-tracker which had been planted under the ship's starboard thrusters, unknown to the crew, continued to emit its neutron radiation, leaving its trail of radioactive breadcrumbs for others who had the capability to detect it to follow.


	9. Chapter 8: Convergence

Chapter Eight: Convergence

**2350 Hours, August 7, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Earth, Sol System**

**Clearwater, Florida**

It had been a long drive. The trip from Riverside all the way down to the middle of Florida's west coast had taken two full days. The Ambroses had packed their 2534 AMG Nightrider with enough food and water to last them those two days and, with the journalist Bill Collins in tow, they had gunned down the highways of the United States for two straight days. They stopped only for meals, bathroom breaks, and to allow Alex and Sam to switch off at the wheel every few hours.

They had arrived in Clearwater half an hour ago, leaving their car at the information center where they had gleaned the location of Polaris's Roadstop, the mechanical garage center which had been started by one of their oldest friends, who worked there now. That was their destination.

Clearwater was a bustling coast town with a thriving seafaring industry. It was much larger than a small, communal town like Riverside, but it wasn't exactly big enough to be considered a city. Its road network comprised of several main avenues which were interconnected by crisscrossing streets. Cleveland Avenue was one such road, running from the park near the information center straight to the beaches, where Polaris's Roadstop was situated.

Bill Collins was flanked by the Ambroses on both sides, the trio striding down the sidewalk of Cleveland Avenue, illuminated by the streetlights, towards the beaches in the distance. Truth be told, the journalist was nervous and jumpy out in public. An insurrectionist sniper had attempted to kill him two days ago while the Ambroses were 'questioning' him. He was a hunted man, now, and ever since the near-miss with the sniper, he had become increasingly on edge.

"So where exactly _is_ this place?" Sam broke the silence after they walked through their latest stoplight.

"It's near the beach, off the end of this road," Alex gestured up ahead, "Ty said that it was near a car dealership, so it should be pretty hard to miss."

"Who is this 'Tyrone' who you keep talking about?" Collins asked finally, unable to restrain his intuitive nature as a journalist any longer.

"He's another spartan, like us," Sam explained, "He was actually our team leader during the war, our only surviving teammate; the other two died on the Ark. We named our son after one of them…and no, he doesn't have any children for you to kidnap," she added frostily.

Collins pursed his lips and kept walking in silence, having already accepted that Sam Ambrose would ensure that he remembered what he did until the day he died. As they continued to head down the street towards the beaches, Collins caught sight of a tall young man wearing a black coat and jeans, walking up against the light stream of pedestrians towards them a ways down the street. He turned and glanced behind him and noticed another, older man, dressed similarly, in the crowd behind them. He couldn't help but feel tense; seeing _anyone_ wearing heavy black on a summer day after the sniper incident was cause enough to make him sweat. He shook his head and ignored his instincts, pressing on.

"Something wrong?" Alex noticed the journalist stiffen slightly, his muscles bunching up and tensing.

"No…nothing…I've just gotten a tad bit paranoid is all…"

The trio continued on their way, moving towards the next traffic light. Collins looked up again and saw the man in black once again, much closer this time, only meters away. _It's nothing_, the journalist thought to himself, _just another person making his way_…_no law against wearing black in the summer_…

The man's hand was in his pocket as he drew level with the Ambroses and the journalist. He made brief eye contact with the journalist, his expression now unmistakable. Collins only had time to begin to open his mouth when he saw the flash of silver as the man whipped a concealed stiletto out of his pocket and thrust it upwards. A million thoughts were whizzing through the journalist's mind, foremost among them was the wait for the explosion of agony that would accompany the thrust.

It never came.

The Ambroses saw the knife too, and Sam, with augmented reflexes faster than lightning, seized the man's wrist, inverted the knife, and plunged it back into the man's chest, all in less than half a second. "Eyes forward, keep walking…" Sam hummed nonchalantly, forcing an apprehensive smile. The trio gave no indication of what had just happened and continued on their way, quickly weaving their way through the people in front of them. They were halfway across the next street crossing when the man collapsed in a pool of his own life essence. The mysterious group of three people passing by was masked in the throng of startled pedestrians rushing to get a good look at the body. By the time the telltale sounds of police sirens sounded nearby, the Ambroses and Collins were far away. The other man in black had vanished.

"How did they track us here?! How in hell could they possibly—"

"Shut up," Sam silenced the frenzied journalist, "We drove here; it's not exactly as subtle as a prowler or active camo. Anyone with a brain could also have put the two and two together with us and Tyrone, so naturally the rebels would station someone here."

The trio reached the end of the avenue ten minutes later, hearts still thumping from the second near-miss on the sidewalk. The sounds of crashing breakers and the cries of seagulls drifted over from the beaches, classic shoreline noise. Sam's mouth twitched in reaction to the noise, the sounds triggering several faint memories of her early childhood on the shores of her homeworld of Emerald Cove before the Covenant glassed the planet, prompting her to accept ONI's offer to become a Spartan.

Just down the smaller beach-street to the right was the AMG car dealership which Tyrone had mentioned. If his directions were sound, Polaris's Roadstop should be right next door.

"There," Alex pointed to a sign as they walked past. It was a green neon sign depicting a car with a seven-pointed star in the background, the words Polaris's Roadstop on the top and bottom of the logo.

The mechanical center was a conglomeration of four large garages, each of them connected by a central building. Back behind the compound was a small storage shed and a much larger garage, which was sealed, and had obviously been that way for a while. Alex, Sam, and Collins remained outside, simply gazing at the compound for a minute.

The Ambroses' hearts began to beat faster with excitement; it had been years since they had visited their old friend and commander.

"Let's go," Alex led the way up the short drive-in and through the parking lot. They walked up to the front entrance and filed inside. The moment they set foot inside the building, a voice which seemed to be everywhere at once began to speak.

"Welcome to Polaris's Roadstop, how may I help you?" a clear, somewhat synthetic voice addressed the three visitors. As it spoke, a small figure materialized on top of the vacant front desk. It was small, only a foot tall, dressed like a detective in a tan trench coat, gray fedora, spectacles, and a magnifying glass protruding from its pocket.

"Polaris?!" Sam gasped, recognizing the AI. Eleven years ago, when the UNSC _Breath of Winter_ had ferried the spartans of Gamma Company from Onyx to Earth in time for the Battle of Mombasa, Polaris had been the shipboard smart AI assigned to that ship. Alex was likewise surprised; they hadn't expected to see the AI again at all, let alone _here_ of all places.

"I have recollections of you and your companion," Polaris scrutinized Sam and Alex, "It has been quite some time, my augmented friends. Tyrone should be here momentarily—"

Suddenly, Alex let out a yelp of surprise as a pair of heavily muscled, dark-skinned arms wrapped around his midsection from behind and lifted him up into the air in a crushing bear hug which would have cracked a normal man's ribs.

Laughing heartily, Tyrone put his old friend down and gave Sam a gentler hug, ever the gentleman. "Well, well, well," his face broke out into a huge grin, "What brings you two lovebirds down to my humble garage?! You were pretty vague over the phone!"

"Is that _Polaris_ Polaris? From the _Winter_?!" Alex exclaimed, gesturing to Polaris, who was still hovering over the desk.

"Yes he is," Tyrone nodded, "Helped me start this place. Polaris, wrap things up in here, then transfer yourself to the ship and wait for me there."

The holographic detective gave a nod before vanishing.

Tyrone led his three visitors behind the front desk and into a hallway which connected the four garages to one another and to the rec room. They passed the door to the rec room and walked into another room further on down, which Tyrone utilized as his informal office. There was a small desk with a few stacks of papers and files which Tyrone plopped down behind, gesturing for his guests to sit in the three chairs set in front of the desk. "So, let's get down to brass tacks; two days ago I get a call from Sam asking me if I could do y'all a favor. I caught the part about us needing my ship…care to elaborate? I mean, whatever this is, it must be something big, because _my_ ship of all ships isn't exactly the best—"

"Our son was kidnapped," Sam interrupted Tyrone, bringing his speech to a screeching halt.

"Come again?"

"Our son was kidnapped, so now we need your ship." Sam stated flatly, getting right to the point.

"_Kidnapped_ kidnapped?! As in taken-away-against-his-will-and-held-for-ransom kidnapped?!" Tyrone spluttered, "Who the hell would take Robin away; I mean it's not as if we're all celebrities or anything!"

"He was taken by insurrectionists," Alex explained to Tyrone everything that had transpired since his son had been taken away four days ago, from the subsequent investigation to their interrogation of Bill Collins.

"Who, this dude?" Tyrone gestured to Collins, "He _helped_ those pricks?"

"Here we go…" Collins muttered.

"They forced him into their plans; that's all behind us now," Alex dismissed the line of discussion with a wave of his hand, much to Collins' relief, "What matters is that the insurrectionists have already left Earth by now, but Mr. Collins has a way to track them. For that, we need your ship."

"Do _I_ have an invitation?" Tyrone cocked an eyebrow, "If there's some insurrectionist ass-kicking to be had, I don't imagine you actually considered leaving me behind here? Besides, Polaris would most likely rather have me along."

"What the hell kind of question is that?" Sam chuckled, smiling for one of the first times in several days, "Of _course_ you're coming. Figured we'd have to be the ones persuading _you_."

"Speaking of Polaris," Alex chimed in, seeking an answer to a question which had been nagging at the back of his mind, "How the _hell_ is he still around? Last time I saw him was on the _Winter_ eleven years ago. _Eleven years_. Smart AIs have an operational lifetime of only seven years before they expire; how can he possibly still be functioning?!"

"Because he's the furthest we've ever gotten with UNSC Artificial Intelligence units, off the record of course," Tyrone explained matter-of-factly, "We have some time; this is actually a good story," the African-American settled back into his chair, "As you know, smart AIs are created from flash-cloned human brains. They are marvels of technology, millions of calculations whizzing through their minds at infinitesimal rates! But yeah, their problem is that they only have a lifetime of seven years. They have an insatiable desire, a need to gather every scrap of knowledge possible. They keep on learning and learning and learning until they simply can't hold anymore data and they pretty much overload…I don't know the details, but essentially, that's what happens. _But_, an ONI technician found a way to solve that problem. See, the problem with smart AIs is that they keep on learning so much that eventually they just can't hold it all anymore, right? Right, so this techie dissected Polaris and tinkered around inside of him. Don't ask me how he did this, but that techie managed to modify Polaris's base matrices and structure. This techie was able to give him something that we humans have, but smart AIs _don't_," Tyrone tapped the side of his head, "A long-term memory. Don't you see the genius of it all?! Normal smart AIs function with a vast pool of knowledge which they can utilize anytime they need it, but Polaris, with a long-term memory, has the ability to _remember_. Because of this, he'll never think himself to death; he is effectively _immortal_. He can perform just as fast as any other AI, only he does it in the manner of a _human_, not a machine!"

"Is that really possible?" Collins, sensing a potential story, interjected, "Who was this technician? His name should be all over—"

"He was killed at Reach," Tyrone stated, ending the discussion and standing up, gesturing for the others to follow suit, "But enough of this; we have a lot to do. Come with me, I'll get the ship ready."

Tyrone led the Ambroses and Collins back through the hallways and outside through one of the garages. They rounded the corner of the compound, heading for the larger, sealed storage building which was presumably where Tyrone kept the ship, only to come face to face with two familiar individuals leaning against a rental car.

"Officer Waters? What—" Sam gaped in surprise when the police officer from Riverside straightened up and approached them.

Officer Waters held up a hand, quelling her. "You should have taken a pelican down here; they're much faster. Allow me to introduce Colonel Angiers, ONI Section One," the officer gestured to the thin, pale man standing next to him.

"Well met, once again," the ONI official nodded to the spartans, "You may not remember me, but I worked with you in Kiev."

"This is the dude who let me have Polaris and the ship," Tyrone explained.

The back doors of the car opened up and two more men climbed out, moving around to the trunk. The first was a well-built stocky man with thick red hair and a trimmed beard of the same color. His name was Alley Garris and he had fought in the war as a platoon gunnery sergeant, establishing a friendly acquaintance with the Ambroses as fellow veterans. Next and last to step out of the car was Mr. Peruski, the old veteran who lived down the street from the Ambroses and who had been instrumental in discovering the identity of the kidnappers. Seeing him out and about away from his home, in _Florida_ to boot, was mind-boggling.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam exclaimed.

"If you assumed that you were the only ones to come up with a way to follow the insurrectionists, you were mistaken," Angiers, the ONI spook, asserted, "We know that you have a way to follow them. HighCom would also be quite interested to learn the location of URF space, and I'm the one they sent to glean that information. We are coming with you."

"You won't be able to keep up with us in combat if the need arises," Alex warned the newcomers.

Mr. Peruski made a hocking sound at the back of his throat and spat onto the ground, treading on the phlegm with his boot, "Son, we can pull our _own_ goddamn weight, now lead the way!"

"Well the more, the merrier," Tyrone shrugged, "Besides, seven people is a good number. It's kind of a lucky number too…you wouldn't believe how many apparent references to the number 'seven' during the war people keep on hawking on about; it makes your brain throb..."

Alley Garris popped open the trunk and hauled out several large boxes of ammunition before carefully pulling out his old MA5B assault rifle and M6D magnum, both older weapons from before the war's end. The M6D was an earlier variant of the magnum, and was much, _much_ more powerful than the later variants. Though Alex had never used one; by the time Gamma Company had left Onyx the military was using the much weaker M6G model, he had heard stories of the M6D magnum being able to take _Hunters_ down with only a couple shots.

Mr. Peruski drew out his M6J Carbine, a cross between a magnum and a rifle, and the weapon he had carried throughout his fighting days. It had the name 'Penelope' engraved into its stock, which was also the name of his late wife.

Alex hefted the duffel bag containing his and Sam's weapons and followed Tyrone up to the sealed storage building. Ty drew out a ring of keys and inserted one of them into the padlock, giving it a try, but the key didn't fit. He tried the next one, then the next one, both without result. He gave an impatient sigh and tossed the keys back into his pocket. He gripped the padlock in his fist and squeezed. The lock gave a protesting crunch, but it still yielded to Tyrone's crushing nelson before he tore it off, casting the now-useless ball of metal away.

Tyrone pushed open the double-doors and flicked on the lights, revealing the interior of the large building and the ship within.

"I still can't believe they let you keep it," Sam declared, eyeing the ship grounded in the center of the building.

"I'm the guilty one there," the spook, Angiers, confessed as he got a good look at the ship as well.

Sitting in the center of the building was nothing other than a Covenant Phantom dropship, albeit a heavily modified and improved one. Its name was still imprinted upon the hull; _Journey to Salvation_.

Alex laid his hand on the hull and stroked his fingers across it. This had been the phantom on which he, Sam, and Tyrone had escaped the Ark on, in that last battle against the Flood during the war. Alex could understand why Ty would want to keep the ship.

The phantom itself had been heavily modified. It was twice its original size and equipped with stealth capabilities, cryo-pods, and a more efficient Sangheili slipspace drive.

When asked how he had managed to achieve all this, Tyrone simply replied, "I've been working on her for ten years; what did you expect, a tractor? Wait here, I'll start up the grav lift."

Tyrone leaped up into the side opening of the main hold and climbed into the cockpit. The phantom's engines glowed as they warmed up and the dropship rose ten feet into the air, holding steady. The hole in the belly of the ship glowed purple and a column of indigo light descended down to the floor. Peruski and Garris felt a brief feeling of disorientation before the weightlessness of the grav-lift overcame them, drawing them up into the phantom's hold along with the ammo crates which they lugged in from the car outside.

Alex took a tentative step forward into the lift, taking note of every sensation he felt while rising up into the belly of the phantom. He had only consciously used this very grav lift once before, but he had been shaking hands with Death at the time, so he didn't remember much of it.

After a minute of loading up food and supplies, Polaris transferred himself from the mechanical compound to the ship, using the phantom's holographic technology to appear in his preferred avatar. "All of your affairs are in order. I have designated Mr. Ormon to take over for the duration of your absence."

Tyrone nodded, satisfied, "Good, Ormon can do a bang-up job when he puts his mind to it. Have you reinstated all of the compound's original technology to make up for _your_ absence?"

A smile tugged at the corner of Polaris's mouth. "Done."

As Polaris spoke, Garris rose back up into the hold, carrying another box of supplies. "This is the last of it all," the retired marine informed the others, taking the box up into the makeshift cryo-chamber and setting it down with the rest of the supplies before climbing back down the ladder into the main hold, where everyone had gathered in a rough circle.

"If you accompany us, you will most likely be put in harm's way," Alex said to the others, "I won't bother to tell you the personal risk or try to change your minds; you've already decided. The insurrectionists have taken our son, and they're gonna use him in their plan to destroy us. We _cannot_ allow this to happen. We must find Robin and alert HighCom of whatever we come across. There's a storm coming…and I don't like what I see in the near-future…but it's up to _us_ to prevent that storm. I—"

"Oh enough with the blubbering, already, there's no army behind us and we're _not_ charging into battle yet, and I'm in the mood for a nice and long cryo-nap," Tyrone grumbled.

"Then, to sum it up," Alex finished, "Thank you all. Good luck."

"The ship is yours, Polaris," Tyrone said to the AI, "Take us out of here."

As everyone started to climb up the ladder and into the cryo-chamber for the upcoming slipspace jump, Collins remained downstairs and engaged Polaris in a deep conversation concerning tracking the proto-type neutron radiation emitter on the insurrectionist prowler and then about the nature of his human functionality.

Expertly multi-tasking, the smart AI, while conversing with Mr. Collins, interfaced with the controls of the building the ship was housed in and activated the roof mechanism, opening up a large hole in the roof and allowing the phantom to ascend out of the building and up into the night sky. As the air began to thin, Polaris sealed the phantom's side openings and the grav-lift entrance, making the ship completely air-tight. A subtle whirring sound was audible as the phantom's atmosphere-recycling systems came to life, recycling the air so that those on board would not breathe it all up.

The phantom soared up through Earth's atmosphere and out into orbit as Polaris followed the trail of neutron radiation left by the insurrectionist prowler like a…trail of breadcrumbs, the journalist had put it, to Polaris's initial confusion. "Initiating stealth systems," Polaris reported to Tyrone, who had also remained in the cockpit.

"Coming up on the Philadelphia Orbital Defense Platform…keep those stealth systems running; this would _not_ be a good place to go visible all of a sudden," Tyrone cautioned.

Polaris kept the ship moving forward until the trail of degrading neutron radiation vanished suddenly, obviously at the point where the insurrectionist prowler had entered slipspace. Interfacing with the phantom's sensors, Polaris could almost feel the warm glow of the slipspace wake left behind by the prowler. "Initiating slipspace drive, entering the wake. Might I suggest reporting to your cryo-pod, Tyrone? I anticipate a lengthy trip ahead of us."

"Aight. See you on the other side, old friend," Tyrone gave Polaris a final nod before following Collins up the ladder.

Polaris returned his attention to guiding the phantom into the wake. He interfaced with the slipspace drive and activated it. The perfectly spaced and positioned micro-black holes sprang into existence in front of the phantom, generated by the high-power cyclic particle-accelerators in the slipspace drive. As they flared to life, more were created around them, resulting in, instead of a raw gash into slipspace, a delicate incision. It was made even easier in this case, as instead of entering a completely new slipspace jump, the phantom was entering a slipspace wake; instead of creating a new incision, the drive was merely reopening a scar. The Hawking radiation emitted by those generated micro-black holes dissipated them within nanoseconds, but the energy from the holes was then utilized in the process of manipulating that energy and opening a stable rupture into slipspace.

The whole process had taken mere nanoseconds.

Polaris gave a satisfied hum and guided the phantom into the now-open slipspace wake, sending them capitulating forward towards their destiny.


	10. Chapter 9: Way of the Swordsman

Chapter Nine: Way of the Swordsman

**1300 Units, 68****th**** Day of the Sun's Embrace, Twelfth Cycle (1****st**** Age of Restoration) \  
Sanghelios, Urs Triplate System**

**State of Fehum, Ilima**

"You are the lightning bolt," the tall golden-armored Sangheili declared, bringing his thick wooden stave swinging down towards his young son's head. The young Sangheili, barely ten cycles old, raised his own stave and managed to block his father's blow.

"You strike _hard_," the Sangheili in the golden armor feinted another overhead blow, only to switch it to an undercut at the last second, darting in under his son's raised stave and delivering a sharp blow to the abdomen. The youngling gasped in pain, but knew better than to retreat, raising his stave in a defensive pose once again.

"You strike _fast_," the father's stave connected with the back of his son's skull, making the youngling see stars.

"You strike fear into the hearts of your enemies, and awe into those of your friends," the golden Sangheili manipulated his stave like a baton, twirling it past his son's guard and connecting with his arm with a loud _thwack_. He drew the stave along his son's arm and twisted it, sending his son's stave flying.

The youngling hung his head and looked down at the ground, flinching ever so slightly and waited inevitable for the beating which was sure to follow…only it never came. His father crouched down in front of him and placed a finger under his chin, tilting his head up. "Look at me," the older Sangheili said in a softer, kinder tone.

"I have failed you again," the youngling sniffed despondently, barely holding eye contact with his father. For several months, his father had been training him in the ways of the sword. He learned the combat forms first before his father began to fight him one-on-one with wooden staves, adopting a more hands-on style of teaching. His son had yet to come remotely close to besting him. However, despite the inferiority of his skill compared to that of his father's, he would probably be able to take on anyone unpracticed with the blade, but the youngling was ignorant to that fact.

"You are thinking too much," the golden-armored Sangheili said to his son, "You still attempt to fight as if you are holding a weapon, but that is not the way of the swordsman. A swordsman does not fight with a sword; he fights with an extension to his arm. You are not holding a stave; you are holding an extension to _your_ arm. There is no 'you', and there is no stave; the two are one, and the one is all. Now," the father stood up and retrieved his son's stave, picking it up and tossing it over, "Clear your mind. Cleanse yourself of distractions and try again. Do not _hold_ your blade, _be_ your blade."

The youngling held up his stave and crouched down slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and waited for his father to strike.

"You are the lightning bolt," the golden-armored Sangheili proclaimed, steadily circling around his son, his stave at the ready, poised to attack, "The lightning bolt is unpredictable," he asserted, leaping forward and landing a sharp blow on his son's leg before retreating out of the way to avoid the retaliatory lunge.

"The lightning bolt is unpredictable," the father repeated, "It can strike anywhere…anytime—"

The youngling let out a furious cry and charged his father, twirling the stave over his head before lunging for his father's midsection. The golden-armored zealot effortlessly deflected the blow, thrusting his own stave forward towards his son's abdomen, but the youngling had already twisted out of the way. The zealot's stave only clipped his son's hip. The youngling, out of pure instinct and reflex stimulated by months of sparring, brought his stave about and landed a blow on his father's outstretched arm.

The zealot took a large stride forward, locking his and his son's staves between their bodies. He stared into his son's eyes for a full second before drawing his mandibles back in a smile. "Well done, Niro, you have just severed my sword-arm, leaving me—while not dead—temporarily stunned; ample time for you to have finished me off had this been a real fight for your life."

"I…I…" Niro 'Ovarum gazed up at his father, nearly speechless at his achievement. Finally, after months and _months_ of grueling, exhausting, painful sparring bouts, he had just had a breakthrough!

"Enough practice for today," the zealot told his son, "Let us retire for the day."

The Heliosii, the collective name of the three suns of Sanghelios, were now high in the sky; at the point when the day was at its hottest, and a good time to cease strenuous outdoor activity until they began to set in the east.

The father and son picked up after themselves and walked back across the wide open field behind their home and into the house. The house was a smaller dwelling; only two stories tall and fairly averaged-size. It was a bit larger than its neighbors, but it was certainly wasn't nearly as large as the homes of other zealots.

Iram 'Ovarumee was something of a fluke among his fellow zealots, preferring a rustic, average home as opposed to the opulent holds in the center of large towns and cities where most of the other zealots made their abode. He had fought against too many enemies for too long to be able to, in good conscience, live in a wealthy house, instead opting to settle down in the village of Sage with a good number of his former soldiers. It was a good, simple, peaceful life, one which 'Ovarumee could live out and die a happy person.

Unfortunately, like all good things in life, it wasn't going to last.

The zealot sent his son upstairs and headed into the kitchen, where his wife was busy preparing the room for dinner, which she would start cooking in a few hours' time. Her name was Quenya, and she had been married to the zealot for nearly twelve cycles. She didn't have the easiest life or the most pleasurable, but she was still satisfied with her lot. There were thousands of ways for it to be worse, and the pros always outweighed the cons.

Iram 'Ovarumee had been a mere ultra back in those days, on leave on Sanghelios following the extremely costly victory on Reach, a human world, when he met his future wife. They had known each other previously as younglings, but before anything could spark, Iram had been whisked away to join the Covenant military, a custom for most male younglings born to soldiers.

They had petitioned the assistance of a Cleric during his shore-leave and had swiftly married. After all, there was a good chance that he would never return after his leave was over.

He had fought on Installation 05 alongside a mixed unit of spec ops Sangheili and Kig-Yar snipers, combating the Flood for the duration of the conflict. When the Jiralhanae, or brutes as the Humans called them, had turned on his kind, sparking the Great Schism and the eventual alliance with the humans, he had personally slaughtered all of the Loyalist Kig-Yar in his unit who attempted to turn their rifles on his men.

But, the rest is history. The war ended later the next year, 'Ovarumee returned home along with the other surviving Separatists warriors, and was bestowed with the rank of Zealot. Amidst many other changes in society, the 'ee' suffix, dropped after the Great Schism, was reinstated to label the new 'Sangheili' military, replacing the old military of the Covenant.

'Ovarumee was able to settle down for a few years with his wife. Together, they had their son and had started to build a new life for themselves. However, the High Council had grown tired of the surviving brutes' numerous attempts to attack Sangheili and Human worlds, so 'Ovarumee and several other zealots were ordered to take their fleets to the brute homeworld of Doisac, interrupting his life once more. The battle had been brief, but bloody. The brute planet had ended up being partially glassed as a warning to the species of vile savages.

"Finished banging logs already?" Quenya 'Ovarum grunted as her husband entered the kitchen, giving her shoulder an affectionate stroke.

"He is improving greatly," 'Ovarumee mused, "He managed to score a winning hit."

"That reminds me, one of his friends stopped by a few minutes ago, wondering if Niro wanted to hunt for helioskrills in the Nether," Quenya informed her husband, "If you are finished with him, I was going to let him go."

'Ovarumee inclined his head in a nod, clicking his mandibles in pleasure as he recalled memories of his childhood when _he_ had gone helioskrill-hunting in the twisted, maze-like canyon known as the Nether several miles away from this town. Helioskrills were medium-sized predators with thick, smooth, gray fur. In order to feed, they would sit stone-still and imitate a rock until an unsuspecting meal came along. Hunting the creatures was a favorite pastime of Sangheili younglings.

"Oh, and your brother will be arriving here momentarily," Quenya added, smirking as 'Ovarumee nearly choked in surprise.

"What?! I thought Imos was serving with the fleets; what is he doing—"

Quenya raised an eyebrow, turning to face her husband, "Do you honestly think he told me _why_ he was coming?" she shrugged and turned back to the counter, "Well he hinted at it. Something to do with the Clanmeet at Fehum Keep tonight."

'Ovarumee snorted at the mention of the clanmeet. Clanmeets were gatherings held at the ruling keep of every state. Aristocrats, elders, and the occasional zealot would attend these meetings to discuss matters of politics and welfare. 'Ovarumee, true to his warrior's nature, had no patience for such gatherings and did not attend them.

Just as he was opening his mouth to reply, Niro bounded down the stairs and entered the kitchen. "Can I go, now?" he asked.

"The helioskrills are nasty biters," 'Ovarumee cautioned his son, "Count your fingers and memorize the number. I want you to return here with no less than the amount which you counted now," he asserted sternly before murmuring, "Now, go have fun."

Niro 'Ovarum's face and eyes lit up, his mandibles twitching with excitement. "I'll be back later tonight!" he hollered over his shoulder as he hurried out of the kitchen and darted out of the house to catch up with his friends.

'Ovarumee watched him go, a smile spreading across his face. He sighed and turned back to his wife. "One thing I envy about the Humans is their families," he muttered, "Others consider me a fluke for living and training with my own son, yet it is considered normal, natural for Human families…We are not part of the Covenant any longer and we are no longer ruled by warlords like we were before the San-Shyuum rained fire upon us; why should we continue to adhere to the old customs?"

Quenya slipped her hand into her husband's, saying, "You aren't the only one who is bringing about change, and you won't be the last! We have been part of the Covenant for a thousand cycles and ruled by warlords by tens of thousands more; it will take more than eleven cycles of this new age to change our ways."

'Ovarumee grunted, agreeing with his wife but at the same time impatient with the notion of long-term changes. He wanted society to evolve _now_, not in fifty or one hundred cycles.

Just as he was about to leave the kitchen, there was a sharp knock on the front door. 'Ovarumee strode through the hallway and into the entrance chamber, opening the door to reveal a tall Sangheili—not as tall as himself, but close—clad in the pure white armor of an ultra.

The zealot grinned. "It has been quite some time, brother," 'Ovarumee embraced the ultra, clapping him on the shoulder, "Look at you; already an ultra and serving in a new fleet! What in the name of the Gods brings you here?"

Imos 'Ovarumee returned the embrace and stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Well met, indeed…how's the family?" he asked after shouting a greeting to Quenya, who hollered back in response.

"Never better," 'Ovarumee chuckled, "You just missed Niro; he went out helioskrill-hunting with some of his friends."

The two brothers conversed for a few minutes, trading stories and tales of their exploits for the past few cycles before Imos got down to business and started talking about his purpose for being in Fehum. "I was reassigned to the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression…_your_ Fleet."

It was 'Ovarumee's turn to cock an eyebrow, confusion showing in his eyes. "My Fleet was dissolved after the attack on Doisac," the zealot reminded his brother.

Imos shook his head. "It's being mobilized once more…I came here to inform you that the clanmeet at Fehum Keep tonight is no normal clanmeet; a representative of the High Council will be there. As a Fleet Master, you are required to attend."

'Ovarumee shrugged. "I never went to those things because politics do not agree with my stomach or brain…but if the High Council is involved, it must be serious…alright, I'll go with you. But not unless you stay for a quick meal; if you were anymore famished than you look now, I'd have to call in the town Healer!"

Imos moistened his mandibles eagerly, recalling memories of Quenya 'Ovarum's cooking. "Well, brother, I won't insult you and your wife by refusing!"

'Ovarumee followed his brother into his house, digesting what little information he had gleaned from the conversation. The fact that his old fleet was being mobilized was troubling news, and he was worried that he might be called out to lead it in battle once more.

How long would he be away from his wife, son, and friends _this_ time?


	11. Chapter 10: Clanmeet

Chapter Ten: Clanmeet

**2200 Units, 68th Day of the Sun's Embrace, Twelfth Cycle (1st Age of Restoration) \  
Sanghelios, Urs Triplate System**

**State of Fehum, Ilima**

Fehum Keep was a tall, forbidding castle-like structure set on a ridge a good ways up the slopes of Mount Oneiron. Mount Oneiron was the tallest peak in the Hugr Mountains, the range of mountains which separated the southern peninsula of the continent of Ilima—which made up the state of Fehum—from the rest of the mainland, forming a fortunately-natural borderline between Fehum and the neighboring state of Virullum.

Natural borders were always the best sort; when it was a mountain range, river, forest, or chasm dividing two states from each other, neither state would be able to disagree over the border. Not that the states of Sanghelios were in a state of civil war; far from it, but back in the times when the planet was ruled by warlords, borderlines which weren't denoted by natural landmarks or features were doomed to become battlefields.

Iram and Imos 'Ovarumee had squeezed into the Iram's Type-32 Rapid Assault Vehicle, or 'Ghost', after a hasty evening meal and had managed to reach the Hugr Mountains an hour after dusk, a testament to the speed of a ghost using its boosters.

"Ah, Fleet Master 'Ovarumee…early as ever, I see," Nuel, one of the 'Fehum Elders, greeted the zealot airily as he guided his ghost through the front gates of the keep and into the assembly yard, "And you brought your dear brother along as well, most—"

'Ovarumee simply grunted as he and his brother dismounted the ghost. He wasn't very fond of Nuel 'Fehum; _no one_ really was, but he still knew better than to insult an elder. He gave his brother a light, discreet kick before he could reply in kind.

"A zealot arrives _precisely_ when he means to, neither before nor after such a time," 'Ovarumee replied evenly, leading his brother inside the large castle-like building and cold-shouldering the fuming elder.

"You stop _me_ from offending him, only to do so yourself," Imos chuckled mirthfully.

"Insulting and offending are two different things. When you happen to offend someone the way I just did, the victim cannot retaliate," 'Ovarumee sighed, rolling his eyes to the star-sprinkled heavens, "But when someone like _you_ calls him a stooped, hunched-over, yellow-livered, old _aigumein_…well, that is a different matter."

Imos, impressed at how very close his brother's example was to what he was actually going to say, nodded and fell silent for the rest of the walk. The two brothers walked through the myriad mansions and homes of the keep's inhabitants which occupied the green between the outer and inner walls. Two Sangheili were guarding the gates, both of them wearing the red armor of domo majors and wielding type-51 carbines. 'Ovarumee recognized one of them from his old infantry unit during the Battle of Installation 00.

"Fleet Master, Ship Master," they nodded to the 'Ovarumees, bowing their heads slightly and clasping their right fists to their left-side hearts in a salute.

The zealot and the ultra both returned the salute, stepping past the guards and through the gate.

"It may have been a trick on my ears, but did I just hear the guardsmen address you as 'Ship Master'?" the elder 'Ovarumee could barely suppress a grin.

The younger 'Ovarumee's mandibles clicked in mild embarrassment. "I suppose I was understating when I told you I was just _reassigned_ to your fleet…I was given command of one of your old ships, the _Forethought_, after the original commander retired."

The zealot nodded, remembering the ship which his brother was referring to. "She's a good vessel," he agreed, "Treat her well."

The two brothers continued through the inner green and up to the entrance to the citadel, the central white, dome-shaped building where the clanmeets themselves were held. They walked past the two guards stationed at the citadel's entrance in the same manner as before and ducked inside.

The main room of the citadel was circular with a domed ceiling, mimicking the building itself. A horseshoe-shaped table filled the room, its seats occupied by aristocrats and elders. Two other zealots were present as well. 'Ovarumee recognized them as Irthos 'Ulwaree and Neithus 'Weromee, the other two Fleet Masters whom 'Ovarumee had served alongside in the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression. The three zealots exchanged salutes and greetings, nodding formally to Imos as well.

Imos took leave of his brother and compatriots and walked around the back of the table to the other end, where G'ren 'Fehumee, the Kaidon of the state of Fehum, sat along with two other, higher-ranking individuals. The right-most individual was Supreme Commander Zolan 'Yeromee, the commander of 'Ovarumee's entire fleet. Between the Supreme Commander and the Kaidon, however, sat High Councilor 'Valaree, a member of the High Council of Sanghelios.

The Councilor was an older Sangheili, garbed in the customary white and the headdress. Imos 'Ovarumee reached the far end of the table and whispered something into the Councilor's ear. The aged Sangheili nodded in response to whatever it was that Imos told him and turned his attention to the rest of the room. He raised one of his hands, plunging the room into silence.

"Come forward," Supreme Commander 'Yeromee gestured to the three zealots, who cautiously moved up through the open center of the table towards their leader, giving him, the Kaidon, and the Councilor the customary salute, which was returned, before somewhat relaxing.

"As I'm sure you have guessed, the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression, the Fleet which you led with distinction throughout the assault on Doisac and the other Jiralhanae worlds, and which was dissolved _after_ those engagements, is being mobilized once more," Councilor 'Valaree declared. He had been right in assuming that the zealots had already guessed the purpose of the meeting; none of the three golden-armored commanders even twitched an eyebrow or mandible in surprise.

The Councilor, noting his true assumption, continued. "The ships of the Fleet, _your_ fleet, are all in place, in orbit above our planet. As we speak, the crews of your ships and their Ship Masters are being briefed in other meetings such as this one."

"With your permission, Councilor," Supreme Commander 'Yeromee sided to the Councilor before addressing his subordinates. At the Councilor's nod, he began to speak. "Not too long ago—around two or three weeks ago—a distress call came from Cibola, one of our new joint colonies with the Humans, claiming that they had been attacked by unknown ships. Three cruisers were dispatched to assist them. Those three ships emerged in-system to find a Human vessel fighting _other_ Human vessels."

"They fought amongst themselves?" 'Fehumee, the Kaidon, posed the question on everyone else's minds.

'Yeromee nodded. "It seems that the Humans underwent a schism not too dissimilar to our own with the old regime. The hostile ships at Cibola appeared to be from the other faction of Humans. That is not the troubling part, however. What causes us concern is the reports from the single UNSC Human ship in the system, a frigate called the _Day of Wrath_. According to the Humans, they encountered unknown alien spacecraft…ships which neither they nor we have ever seen before. The captain of that ship captured an image of those vessels…" 'Yeromee gave Imos a quick nod.

The ultra input several commands into the console on the table in front of him. The hologram projectors in the floor and ceiling whirred to life, revealing a three-dimensional image of two golden, conical, alien vessels. They were shaped like cones, having their engines in the flat part at the rear with the rest of the ship tapering down to a point. The frontal apex of the ships appeared to be large cannon-like weapons of some sort. Other weapons and shipboard systems covered the surface of the ship, disrupting its otherwise smooth surface.

Murmurs and whispers were heard all around the room as the elders and aristocrats got a glimpse of the image. No one had seen ships like those before; they were truly alien and unknown.

"We received another distress call, this time from Asgard, another colony world," 'Yeromee explained, "This is an image of the attacking vessels which the colony was able to send the nearest outpost before their communications were blocked," the Supreme Commander gave the ultra another nod.

A second image sprang up into existence next to the first. This one depicted a group of eight ships identical to those in the first image. By looking at the projection, the Sangheili in the room could tell that it was an incomplete shot; there had to be dozens of the ships in the area which the image didn't show.

"Your Fleet is being mobilized for the purpose of responding to this and any future distress call," Councilor 'Valaree finished, "These aliens have already shown themselves to be hostiles, so there will be no need for hesitant fire. Until their threat level can be ascertained, you will act with extreme caution."

"Our objective will be to proceed to the colony of Asgard and secure it. We will destroy any of these aliens who stand in our way," 'Yeromee addressed the three zealots once again, informing them of their mission, "You three, as before, will serve as my Fleet Masters, commanding the same battlegroups as before. Are there any inquiries?" the Supreme Commander asked, clicking his mandibles and continuing when no one spoke up. The briefing had pretty much covered everything. "Very well, you three are dismissed. You have the rest of the night to return to your homes and bid your families farewell. Tomorrow morning, I will send phantoms to your homes and you will be taken to your ships."

"Yes, Commander," 'Ovarumee, 'Ulwaree, and 'Weromee chorused in unison.

* * *

The phantom had come for 'Ovarumee well before the Heliosii had a chance to rise. Their warming glow was just barely beginning to crest over the western horizon. He hadn't slept; his mind had been on overdrive ever since the clanmeet. Quenya hadn't reacted too well to his news, but she wasn't truly angry; it was the duty of the male to fight, and she had accepted that cycles ago.

Niro 'Ovarum, the zealot's young son, had to be sat down and explained what his father was about to do. He didn't cry or show any extreme emotion, although 'Ovarumee could see his eyes welling up. "How will I be able to get my sword if you're not here to train me?" he asked his father.

Iram 'Ovarumee drew his mandibles back in a smile. "You will have to continue practicing the forms as I taught you. Keep your mind clear and sharp as an Eolisian Crystal, and remember; you are the lightning bolt. You will have to find a substitute while I am gone, or continue practicing alone. But do not despair! I will not be gone forever, and when I return I am going to drill you extra-hard to make sure you have remembered what I have taught you! Consider this a test."

Imos cleared his throat discreetly, reminding 'Ovarumee of his timetable.

The zealot embraced his son one last time, whispering, "Strength and Honor" into his ears. Niro repeated the mantra and released his father, moving up to his mother's side and watching from the porch as his father headed towards the green phantom dropship waiting out on the gravel road.

Imos gave Quenya a quick farewell embrace as well and tickled under his nephew's chin. "I'll make sure he brings you back a souvenir," he told the youngling, "_And_ himself," he added quietly, glancing at Quenya, with whom he shared a quick nod.

The 'Ovarumee brothers boarded the phantom, which promptly took off; rising rapidly upwards into the night sky until the stars completely enveloped the ship. Iram clambered forward into the cockpit and stood behind the pilot's seat, gazing out through the front window. The phantom was heading towards a conglomeration of around seventy to eighty Sangheili cruisers and frigates; the newly remobilized Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression.

The Fleet's supercarrier, the _Resplendent Rapture_—the ship personally commanded by Supreme Commander 'Yeromee—was in the center of it all, like a queen bee among drones. The Fleet's supercarrier was not their destination, however, the phantom turned instead towards the _Divine Radiance_, one of the three assault carriers of the Fleet. 'Ovarumee had commanded his portion of the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression from that very ship; it brought about a sense of exhilaration to be gazing upon it once more.

The phantom continued on its course until it slid through the force-fields protecting the open docking ports of the massive vessel's hangar bay and came to a halt just inside. "This is my stop," 'Ovarumee declared, emerging from the cockpit, "And also where we part ways."

"Lucky me," Imos quirked.

A deep-throated chuckle worked its way up 'Ovarumee's throat. The zealot embraced his brother one last time before stepping into the dropship's grav lift, slowly descending down to the floor through the pillar of indigo light. Once he was safely on the ground, the phantom's engines fired up once more and the dropship slipped back out of the hangar bay and into space, no doubt heading to take Imos 'Ovarumee to the _Forethought_.

Iram 'Ovarumee took one look around himself before setting off across the mile-long hangar bay. Due to the immense size of the assault carrier, it took him nearly fifteen minutes to reach the bridge, located at the nucleus of the ship. The bridges of Sangheili vessels were always located in the center, protected by layers of thick armor and plating, which made the most logical sense, as opposed to Human ships with their exposed and protruding bridges.

The bridge crewmembers, made up of the same individuals as the last time the _Divine Radiance_ had flown as part of the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression, were already at their stations. They all rose and saluted in respect for their old commander as 'Ovarumee strode onto the bridge.

"Fleet Master," Uliq 'Arrolee, the ultra who served as 'Ovarumee's first officer, greeted his old friend and commander.

"Proceed," the zealot returned the salute and waved his hand, prompting the bridge crew to resume their duties. Before the zealot had a chance to do much else, the screens set into the central pillar of the dome-shaped bridge came to life and a hologram of none other than Supreme Commander 'Yeromee appeared and began to speak.

"My brothers," the Supreme Commander began, "It has been four years since we have last served alongside each other. Time certainly does not seem to have tarnished or dulled our skills, and that is a spark I fear we may all need to blow on in the near future. A distress call came in from Asgard, one of the colony worlds we started with the Humans. Our task is to answer that call and destroy any and all hostile presence. That hostile presence will be made up of alien vessels…aliens which we know nothing about; whether or not they are strong or weak, intelligent or mindless, advanced or primitive, superior or inferior. Until we can better understand these creatures, we must act with extreme caution. Arrogance shall be our downfall, should be allow ourselves to be ruled by it. May the Gods watch over you all," 'Yeromee said in conclusion, his hologram fading away.

'Ovarumee took his place in the captain's chair, the seat overlooking the rest of the bridge. Through the viewscreen, the bridge crew could see the other ships in the Fleet firing up their engines and vanishing into slipspace. "Navigation, input coordinates for the Delta Serpentis System into the slipspace drive and lay in a course," the zealot ordered.

N'saro 'Kirrahee, the helmsman, complied, plugging the appropriate commands into the system.

The ship twitched ever so slightly as the engines engaged and the slipspace drive fired up. The rushing sound which signified a slipspace jump was heard for a split-second before the viewscreen flashed white.

"Just like old times, eh?" 'Ovarumee mused to 'Arrolee as the viewscreen gave way to the darkness of the slipstream.


	12. Chapter 11: Homecoming

Chapter Eleven: Homecoming

**1800 Hours, August 28, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Central Command Citadel, Tethys Region**

The slipspace jump had taken two weeks. Compared to the capabilities of slipspace drives earlier in the century, two weeks was an apt time considering how far away URF space was from UNSC and Sangheili-controlled regions. Earlier in the century, such a trip would have taken months, but technological advances stolen from the UNSC had shortened the length of slipspace jumps considerably.

Liam O'Riley was stirred from his cryo-pod by one of the technicians aboard the prowler, opening his eyes to the lovely sight of the pod's front hissing open, exposing him to the outside where he could see a dozen other crewmen on their way out. He sat up on the form-fitting gel-bed and quickly coughed up the gel-like fluid which had been in his lungs to prevent them from freezing, spitting it out onto the gel-bed where it was absorbed.

"Goddamn refrigerators…" the Shade captain muttered under his breath as he climbed out onto the cold floor. He popped open the footlocker next to his pod and took out his uniform and undergarments, quickly dressing and gathering his gear together. He made his way towards the deployment dock, the small chamber located in front of the engineering compartments which contained the airlock and the deployment ramp. Basically, it was the prowler's front hall.

The Director was already waiting for him, seated next to the open deployment ramp. "Your men have already disembarked; they are being debriefed as we speak," the Director said to the captain, standing up, "You, however, will be accompanying me. I want you to give your report directly to the Magistrate. There will-"

"The _Magistrate_, sir?!" O'Riley exclaimed, "Surely someone else would be better suited to-"

"You were the leader of the team which captured the boy; _you_ should have the honor of being the one to address the scheming old bores. Follow me, and do keep up," the Director set off down the deployment ramp at a brisk pace, prompting Captain O'Riley to follow.

The middle-aged man who seemed to live in his custom-tailored black suit led the Shade commando through the Citadel's docking bay straight to a lift which would take them directly to the council chamber where O'Riley would give his report to the Magistrate, the five-man ruling body of the United Rebel Front.

"Robin Ambrose; what is going to happen to him?" O'Riley asked the Director as the lift started its upward journey towards the top of the Citadel.

The Director cocked an eyebrow, giving O'Riley a side-long glance. "Of what significance is that to you? You told me you weren't growing a conscience, captain…"

O'Riley, realizing how close he was to hot water, thought fast. "The boy's father killed three of my team. I am simply curious how hard of a time we shall give his son in return, sir."

The supplement answer must have worked, because the Director gave a contented nod, saying, "I understand where you are coming from. The boy is being taken to our…processing facilities in the Meillan Region, across the ocean."

A pit of lead formed in O'Riley's stomach as he recognized the place which the Director was describing. "The Paladins will have him?"

The Director gave another nod, along with a slight smile. "Yes. The boy will be completing a very important task for us when the invasion plans are put into motion. He must be _willing_ to do this task; the Paladins will break him, physically and mentally. They will then pick up the pieces and rebuild him…turning him into-"

"Our own personal Spartan…" O'Riley finished, making sense of what the Director was saying.

"Something like that, yes," the Director mused, "But far less crude. He will not be a mere supersoldier to be deployed in battle…no, his purpose—his task—will be far more important than that."

Before O'Riley could ask what the mysterious 'task' was, the lift came to an abrupt halt, jolting its passengers. The Director swore under his breath, muttering something about incompetent designers, as the doors slid open. The two men made their way down the corridor and up to the closed double doors at the other end.

The two guards quickly saluted and stood aside, allowing the Director and his subordinate to pass. The doors opened and the two men strode into a small white room. The far wall was a huge window with a breathtaking view of the city-state of Tethys, stretching out as far as the eye could see. In front of the window was a large, rectangular table with five men seated on one side, facing the entrance. Behind the table was an elevated seat, almost a throne, and in it was none other than High Chancellor Delmar, the unopposed and self-elected Head of State.

O'Riley's jaw went slack and his muscles seized up at the sight of the leader of the URF. The man was ruthless; his path to the top was one of assassination, destruction, and conspiracy. Everyone knew that he was less than honorable, but to say such a thing would result in the Paladins breaking down the offender's door and dragging him off to the processing facilities for summary execution or other punishment.

Having him here, now, was enough to set O'Riley on edge.

The Director seemed unfazed as he crossed to the center of the room and offered a crisp salute, addressing the Magistrate. "Director Culwynn, head of the Shade branch of Special Operations, reporting here as requested."

"Have your man give us his report, Director," the man sitting in the center of the table gestured over to O'Riley.

The Director nodded and motioned for O'Riley to step forward and take his place. The Shade captain gave the Magistrate another salute and stood at attention, ready to answer any questions posed to him.

"And you are?" Minister Hanley asked O'Riley.

"Captain Liam Cathal O'Riley, commanding officer of Shade Team Kappa, reporting here as requested, ministers."

"Yes, yes, you may dispense with the formalities, Captain," Minister Rydell said in a dismissive voice.

"Your Shade team was given the mission of capturing the boy known as Robin Ambrose, son of Alexander-G004 and Samantha-G113, was it not?" Minister Hanley asked O'Riley, if only for confirmation.

"Yes, minister, it was," O'Riley replied evenly, sincerely wishing the earth could swallow him up then and there.

High Chancellor Delmar leaned forward in his chair, listening intently to everything the captain said. "Give us your report, Mr. O'Riley."

"Ignoring all of the minute details, the mission was a success. We were able to capture the objective and escape undetected. This mission was very high-risk; no one breaks into the home of two Spartans without expecting trouble. Somehow—I have no idea how—Alexander and Samantha Ambrose were alerted to our presence. We were able to secure the boy and incapacitate the Ambroses, but only temporarily. Alexander Ambrose managed to kill two of my men and fatally wound another before we could exfiltrate. Our departure from the scene and later from Earth went completely unnoticed," O'Riley finished, steeling himself for the inquiries which would inevitably follow.

High Chancellor Delmar didn't look convinced. "Are you certain you left undetected, Captain?"

"Completely, High Chancellor."

"What of the bodies of your three dead operatives? Were all of them secured?" Delmar ventured.

_Uh-oh_...O'Riley's heart began to sink. "No, High Chancellor. One of the bodies had to be abandoned. Retrieving it would have cost me my entire team _and_ the mission."

The High Chancellor's forehead creased in a frown as he addressed both the Shade captain and the Director. "Our civilian recon asset who determined that Robin Ambrose inherited his parents' augmentations was a certain freelance journalist-gone-writer named Bill Collins, correct?"

"Yes, High Chancellor," the Director replied flatly, his voice stripped of all emotion.

"Answer me this; if you departed from Earth completely unnoticed, why did Alex and Sam Ambrose promptly leave their hometown of Riverside and 'visit' Bill Collins in his home in New York City?" Delmar asked calmly, like a predator at rest, "According to one of our assets, Bill Collins was interrogated, questioned by the Ambroses, and he sang like a bird. He was later seen in Florida, traveling _with_ the Ambroses. Do you know what this means?"

The Director opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the High Chancellor.

"Of _course_ you know what that means! We have been compromised! Our attack will not be a surprise, as planned. The UNSC may already know that we still exist, and if that is true, then-"

"All due respect, Chancellor," the Director interjected, "But the UNSC has been aware of our existence ever since you ordered the attack on Cibola."

The High Chancellor turned his gaze of steel onto the Director. "Are you questioning my decisions, Director?" he posed the question in a dangerously muted tone.

"Not at all, High Chancellor," the Director backpedaled mentally, searching for a route out of his predicament, "I was merely attempting to-"

"Please, spare us your personal opinions, Director Culwynn, they are irrelevant," High Chancellor Delmar berated the Director, "If our government is to survive it will not be because of your meaningless whims. Am I clear?"

"Yes, High Chancellor," the chastened Director mumbled, his face turning an unhealthy shade of red. It was a red of anger, however, not one of embarrassment.

The High Chancellor returned his gaze to the Shade captain, who hadn't moved a muscle throughout the entire exchange. "Captain O'Riley, despite the numerous loose ends and flaws which tarnish the record of your mission, and the loss of life, you _did_ deliver Robin Ambrose to us, and a lot of things will be made possible during the invasion because of that. Despite all of the little facets which suggest the opposite, your mission _was_ a success. I am a reasonable man, Mr. O'Riley, and I reward those who do me service. I am hereby promoting you to the rank of Deputy Director of the Shade Branch of Special Operations. You will no longer take part in field operations; your new mission as Deputy Director is to find and destroy the Illuminati. No one has managed to locate them yet, but I'm sure your luck may take a turn for the better. For your sake, I hope it does; it would spare me the trouble of ordering the Paladins to handle you for your failures, wouldn't you agree? If you have any objections, I would like to hear them now."

Captain O'Riley, who had been considering applying for reassignment for quite some time now, said nothing, secretly relieved that he would no longer have to directly take part in the Shade branch's immoral dealings. Instead, he was now offered a chance to perform a new duty; taking down the Illuminati. It would not be easy, but it was infinitely better to what the Shade branch had him doing in the field. Hunting down the separatists who called themselves the Illuminati was preferable to kidnapping children. With that in mind, O'Riley remained silent, shaking his head.

"It is done, then," High Chancellor Delmar nodded, satisfied, "You will receive the official notifications shortly. Before pitting you against the Illuminati, I believe a small…warm-up mission…would be welcoming to you, something to help you conform to your new job more comfortably. I am sending you to the Meillan Region across the ocean. There, you will be taken to our processing facility in Mire City. Your first mission will be to supervise the summary…" Delmar searched for the appropriate word, "Indoctrination…of Robin Ambrose. I think it would be only fitting for you to see the fruits of your labor bloom, wouldn't you agree?"

O'Riley's stomach lurched at this new turn of events. The Ambrose boy, the reason why he had these new misgivings about his job and his government, the reason why he wanted to get out of the field, had finally been taken away. Gone, at last; his words no longer forcing their way into the captain's logical mindset. But now…now the High Chancellor wanted him to oversee his summary indoctrination!

_Not indoctrination…torture_...O'Riley corrected himself. That's all summary indoctrination really was; glorified torture. Tormenting an individual physically and mentally until he broke, submitting himself or herself to the ideals of the United Rebel Front. The ultimate goal of indoctrination was not only to make the victim submit, it was also made so that when the victim finally submitted, it was because he or she truly _believed_ that the URF was right, that what they were doing was justified. O'Riley knew how effective this system was; he had suffered through it when he was only ten years old for voicing reason in his class; something that had no purpose in the URF. In the United Rebel Front, individuals were not supposed to think. Civilians obeyed the Paladins, soldiers obeyed the Commissars, who in turn obeyed the Magistrate, who obeyed the High Chancellor. If reason clashed with what the Paladins or the Magistrate preached, then it had no purpose. It was banned, shunned, forcibly ignored.

O'Riley jerked his train of thought back to the present and managed to grind out a reluctant, "Yes, High Chancellor."

High Chancellor Delmar grinned contentedly. "Good. That will be all, gentlemen, you may go," he waved the two visitors away.

The Director and newly promoted Deputy Director wasted no time in hurrying out of the council chamber, setting off down the corridor at a brisk pace. They didn't relax until the lift's doors clanged shut, prompting the lift itself to begin its descent towards the docking bay.

O'Riley and the Director both let out simultaneous sighs of relief, releasing the breaths they had been holding for most of the debriefing.

"Well, I suppose we should be thankful for escaping with our hides intact…" the Director surmised, "And I also suppose I owe you a congratulations and a thank-you."

O'Riley shook the hand which the Director offered him. "Thank you, sir."

"No, no; thank _you_, Deputy Director O'Riley," the Director grinned, "The congratulations was for your promotion. The thank-you was for shouldering the task of destroying the Illuminati. Now, whatever those terrorists accomplish is on _your_ hands, not mine," he explained jovially.

O'Riley grunted, falling silent for the rest of the trip down. When the doors slid open, the two men made their way out into the docking bay. As he continued walking, a positive thought occurred to the new Deputy Director. "During the mission, one of my men, Holtz was his name, displayed a complete and total disregard to the mission and to the objective…I suppose with my new rank, I can finally make an example of him…"

"I think you're going to like your job," the Director chuckled.

O'Riley's brief moment of light faded just as quickly as it had popped up, reminded of what he was going to have to do as his maiden mission. "We'll see…" the former Shade captain murmured, more to himself than to the Director, "When do I start?"

The Director cocked an eyebrow, turning to his subordinate. He gestured to a small shuttle-craft which had just come in for a landing on the far end of the docking bay. "That is your transport."


	13. Chapter 12: In Pursuit

Chapter Twelve: In Pursuit

**0130 Hours, August 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

_**Journey to Salvation**_**, in orbit around Nemesis III**

"Standard low orbit achieved, stealth systems online, all other systems functioning normally," Polaris reported to Tyrone the moment he clambered down the ladder, freshly thawed out of his cryo-pod.

"Groovy…carry on," Tyrone waved his hand to the holographic detective, gesturing for the smart AI to continue his work.

The scavenged and modified phantom dropship had emerged from slipspace half an hour ago, following the slipspace wake left by the prowler used by the insurrectionists to leave Earth undetected.

Well, _almost_ undetected.

Colonel Angiers, the ONI spook, and Officer Waters were already in the enlarged main hold of the modified phantom dropship, conversing with each other in muted tones. Noticing the new arrival, the two men straightened up and stood, nodding to Tyrone.

As they stood up, a small, popping noise came from the engine room in the rear of the phantom, accompanied by a small plume of black smoke and the smell of ozone. Alley Garris and Mr. Peruski staggered back into the hold, coughing up a storm and waving the smoke out of their faces.

"What in hell were you two doing in there?" Tyrone cocked an eyebrow in reaction to the scene, craning his neck to get a good look into the engine room.

"Doesn't matter; it didn't work," Alley Garris grumbled, sitting in the spot previously occupied by the ONI spook and trying to clear his throat.

"Hey, Mr. Holo-Sherlock, make yourself useful and get some vents going!" Mr. Peruski hollered at the AI, "This is just making my lungs worse than they've already been for the past few decades..."

Polaris materialized, looking slightly miffed with his new nickname. "Curious; you continue to refer to me as the protagonist of the Arthur Conan Doyle novels, even though it would take considerably _less_ time and energy to simply say my true name," the AI observed as he complied and activated the ventilation systems, clearing the smoke away in seconds.

Mr. Peruski muttered something unintelligible, clearing his throat once more and reaching into his inner pockets. He produced an old, ebony pipe and lit it, releasing small, gentle puffs of surprisingly pleasant-scented smoke into the air.

"Alright, where exactly _are_ we?" Garris asked the obvious first question.

"Sherlock?" Mr. Peruski glanced over at Polaris.

Polaris paused for a nanosecond to process the proper information to give a satisfactory answer. "We are currently orbiting a planet named Nemesis III, the third planet in the Omicron Laurentian System. The Omicron Laurentian System is a distant star system roughly ten thousand light-years from Earth, located at the base of the Orion Arm where it conjoins with the Sagittarius Arm. We are at, as you Humans would say, the 'end of the line'."

"Okay…" Garris nodded slowly, "Well now that we know how far away we are from home, why doesn't someone explain to us the next step of our little master plan?"

There was a murmur of agreement and assent amongst the other men. Four pairs of eyes swiveled and came to rest on Tyrone, who gave a casual shrug. "Hey, don't look at me; I just provided the ship."

The eyes moved to the spook next, who gave a similar shrug. "HighCom sent me to glean the location of URF space; I'm just tagging along with the Ambroses."

"First soul to look at _me_ like that gets a cigarette butt in his eye," Mr. Peruski challenged, almost daring someone to test him.

Just then, the door to the cockpit slid open and Bill Collins strode out into the main hold. "_I_ know our next course of action," the journalist declared "But I would rather have everyone here before starting…where _are_ the Ambroses, are they still upstairs?"

"They've been up there for over fifteen minutes, what could they possibly be doing?" the spook conjectured, finding a new seat to replace the one taken by Alley Garris.

"Take a wild guess…" Mr. Peruski muttered under his breath.

Tyrone headed back over to the ladder and started to climb up into the upper hold, the room containing the make-shift cryo-pods and all of the supplies. He stuck his head through the opening in the main hold's ceiling to get a glimpse of the upper hold and withdrew it just as quickly, rolling his eyes as he climbed back down to the floor. "Give 'em a minute," he chuckled, idling back over to his spot near the cockpit door.

The men waited for another minute or two before a small commotion was heard upstairs and Alex Ambrose's boots appeared on the ladder, followed by the rest of him and his wife. "Sam's footlocker wouldn't open; I had to...ehm..." he cleared his throat, "_help_ her," he finished lamely.

"_I'll_ do the lying next time, thank you very much," Sam sighed, propelling her husband forward and onto one of the benches built into the walls of the hold, "Let's get down to business. Mr. Collins, you said you would be able to track the insurrectionist ship, so let's see it happen."

"Well, in all honesty, it's Polaris who should take the credit; he does all of the real work," Collins confessed, "But you're right; the sooner we finish this, the better. Before we proceed, I must ask what kind of stealth systems this ship has, as it does not possess the black hulls which make prowlers 'invisible'."

Tyrone flashed a grin, eager for a chance to show off some of his ship's features. "During one of my...uh..._trips_...where I went out to collect the materials I needed to make the _Salvation_ the beauty she is today, I snagged one of those old Covenant active camo units and I brought it back to my garage. Well, Polaris and I dissected that unit and tinkered around with its insides and—well, I won't bore you with the details, but we managed to rig the thing so that we could plug it into an energy amplifier unit, which would greatly increase the energy output which the active camo unit would normally give off. For example, with the amplifier up and running, the energy field could envelop not just a single person, but an entire small ship; a phantom, for example. Polaris and I installed the whole shebang into the _Salvation's_ engines and voila! Invisible ship! At least when the cloaking device is active; it's possible to flip it on and off at leisure."

"Well, technically not _invisible_, per se," Polaris corrected his old friend, "Active camouflage simply bends light, creating the _illusion_ of invisibility, but invisibility itself is impossible to-"

"Alright! Science lesson is over," Sam raised her voice, her patience wearing thin, "Collins?"

Bill Collins gave a hurried nod and continued. "Provided the insurrectionists haven't discovered the neutron radiation emitter which I planted on their ship, Polaris can still track it."

The smart AI nodded as well and conjured up a holographic image of Nemesis III, placing the hovering sphere in the center of the hold and enlarging it. "Based on communications chatter from the surface, which I am currently picking up, and from what I could glean of the planet with the ship's sensors, this is an accurate depiction of the planet below. We are here…" the AI paused for another nanosecond and a tiny holographic _Journey to Salvation_ appeared a small distance away from the plant, circling it in a low orbit, "And the neutron radiation trail leads here," the AI manipulated the phantom's holographic projectors and conjured up a pulsing yellow dot on the far side of the planet's surface.

"That is where Robin is right now?" Alex leaned in close, gazing intently at the pulsing yellow beacon as if he could contact his son somehow by staring long enough.

"That represents the current location of the ship which bore your son, not necessarily your son himself," Polaris explained, "However, it is our greatest, and _only_ lead. The rest of the radiation trail is well over a day old, too distorted and tainted for me to accurately track it. The best I can do is pinpoint the location of the ship. The _current_ location, that is; it has most likely landed in other places which I cannot determine from here."

"And where exactly _is_ that spot?" Officer Waters gestured to the yellow dot on the holographic planet.

"I cannot say for certain; I have absolutely no data on this planet," Polaris replied, "But based on what I can glean from planetside communications, it is on an island outpost known as Farseer Epsilon…a listening outpost of sorts…I could tell you more if I had access to their network. I need to get to a console or an access port to give you adequate data. But the prowler which bore Robin Ambrose into this star system is most definitely on that island. In any case, an acceptable course of action in this situation could be to-"

"Polaris, I need to hear myself think," Alex silenced the AI with a wave of his hand, massaging his temples with his other one. "Our next step is simple; we must first learn all we can about this planet and the United Rebel Front…we need to get Polaris into their network, and to do that we need to land."

"If we land at that island, we'll need a way to shut down their communications," Colonel Angiers advised, "After all, surprise is our _only_ advantage here-"

Suddenly, there was a sharp beeping noise coming from the cockpit, cutting into the quiet atmosphere of the main hold. "What the-" Garris began to say, but he was interrupted by the smart AI.

"Proximity alert; hostile contact approaching our position," Polaris reported, shutting off the alarm, "There's only one contact…it's a frigate…must be a patrol."

"Go dark," Tyrone ordered the AI, "Shut everything down except for the cloaking device and the air recyclers."

"Initializing…" the AI did as Tyrone ordered, powering down all of the phantom's systems so that the approaching patrol would not sense them. The main hold was plunged into darkness from the shadow of the patrolling insurrectionist frigate, which could be seen through the cockpit window.

"I thought we were supposed to be _invisible_," Sam hissed.

"We _are_," Tyrone whispered back, "But if an enemy ship comes up to you as close as that one there, its sensors would still pick us up even if they couldn't see us. That's why we always try to keep our distance or run silently when we approach obstacles."

Once the shadow of the ship passed and the planet of Nemesis III was visible through the cockpit window once more, everyone relaxed, releasing a collective sigh of relief. "Bringing systems back online," Polaris stated, powering the ship back to life. The lights sprang back on as he spoke.

"Let's not try that again…" Angiers grunted, "So, back to business. Where were we?"

"Cutting off their communications," Waters answered the ONI spook.

"Right," Angiers nodded, back on track with what he had been about to say before the insurrectionist frigate's unexpected visit. "Perhaps Polaris could himself accomplish that if we gave him access to their systems," the spook suggested, "One advantage of the outpost being on an island is that islands are isolated. Aside from ships, communications are the only way in and out."

Polaris gave a satisfied hum. "If their systems are anything like ours, which they are probably inferior, then yes…cutting off communications should be no problem at all. In the meantime, while we are discussing our plan of action, I will begin landing procedures and take us planetside. With your permission?" the AI waited for Tyrone's nod before continuing. Even though the AI didn't appear to be doing anything differently, the phantom gave a slight lurch as its engines fired up, taking the dropship into the atmosphere of Nemesis III.

The conversation resumed, the eight individuals inside the dropship ignoring the rising temperatures as the phantom sliced through the heat of reentry.

"We should try to remain covert for as long as possible," Alex started to lay out the battle plan. Mr. Peruski gave a scoff of disdain at the prospect of keeping to the shadows, but didn't protest. "The fact that it will be the middle of the night, at least where the island is, will help us. We should send out two teams; an advance team and a backup team. The advance team, no more than three people—preferably two—will have to find a way inside the outpost. Their job will be to get Polaris into the system so that he can cut their communications and prevent them from reporting our presence to their superiors. There should also be a backup team of three or four—I'd try to keep it down to three—who will serve as the advance team's shadow. They will have to keep an eye out for anything which the advance team misses or cannot get to; sentries, patrols, guards, dragons, Loch Ness Monsters, _anything_ which could compromise them before they can get Polaris into the outpost's network."

"And after we cut communications, what then?" Officer Waters, asked, "Do we still go silent?"

"It would be best to go dark for as long as possible after communications are cut," Alex explained, "But if we are compromised afterwards, it won't be the end of us. After Polaris has learned any useful data from their systems, we'll need to yank him and get him to the prowler. If we can get him into the prowler's systems, he should be able to access its flight logs and determine where it has been before it came to the island outpost. With luck, that should lead us straight to Robin."

"How would we go about rescuing-" Garris started to ask, but Sam held up her hand and quelled him.

"Let's take these things one at a time," she asserted, gesturing for Alex to continue.

"I am a sniper," Alex stated, "It wouldn't make much sense for me to be on the advance team when my skills could be put to better use, so I will lead the backup team. Ty, you work with and know Polaris the best; I want you on the advance team with Sam."

Tyrone nodded, flashing his signature smile full of white teeth. "Don't you worry; I'll take care of her. We'll have a grand old time," he draped an arm across Sam's shoulders and jostled her around like he used to in the old days.

"Oh, get off," Sam pushed Tyrone's arm away, a smile surfacing on her face.

"Just remember who the one watching you through the sniper rifle will be," Alex chuckled in response to the jibe. He turned to the others. "Garris, Mr. Peruski; I would like you both to be on my team as well. Collins, you have no field experience whatsoever, so I want you to stay back here on the ship with Colonel Angiers. Waters, I want at least one trained person to remain behind on the ship as well; I want that person to be you."

Officer Bob Waters, who was more accustomed to small-scale street chases and the occasional shoot-out or face-off rather than full-scale assaults such as these, was more than happy to oblige. "Fine by me, Ambrose," the police officer replied.

The eight individuals continued to verify and tweak the attack plans until Polaris rematerialized next to the holographic representation of Nemesis III, which he took one glance at and manipulated the phantom's holographic projectors once more, getting rid of the image. "We are approaching the target island," the holographic detective informed his shipmates, "Initiating landing procedures now."

The phantom slowed down as it reached its destination. A mechanical whirring noise, louder than the subtle hum of the air recyclers, was heard in the phantom's hull as the armor sealing the main hold's two side openings and the deployment hole in the ground slid away, exposing the phantom's interior to the elements. It was possible to see through the openings clearly if they were looked at head-on, but if they were glimpsed at from a side angle or from the corner of one's eye they would appear to be obscured by a rippling haze, similar to the haze an object gives off when it is much hotter than its surroundings. This haze was not heat distortion in this case; it was the active camouflage which was bending the light around the ship to prevent it from being seen by unfriendly eyes.

Even though it was in the middle of the night, Alex, Sam, and Tyrone could all see perfectly through the darkness; complements of their augmented retinas. The island was located around ninety-eight kilometers off the coast of a main continent, so there was no land in sight except for the island itself; the ocean stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. The island itself was roughly teardrop-shaped; it was round and wide at one end and tapered off to a point on the other. It was a small island as well, only four klicks long from the pointed end to the rounded end and three klicks across at its widest point. It was covered mostly with thick trees interspersed with grassy fields.

The listening outpost could be seen clearly from the air; a walled compound of buildings and barracks nestled in one of the fields in the heart of the rounded end of the teardrop. Teams of men could be seen milling about the facility, but the phantom came in for a landing before any close details could be gleaned.

Polaris set the ship 'down' at the tip of the teardrop's long point. Instead of actually landing on the ground, the phantom simply powered down nearly all of its systems to go dark except for the anti-grav plates built into its belly which kept it suspended twenty feet in the air, the cloaking device, and the COM. Everything else was completely shut down.

"This is it; you are free to disembark at your leisure," Polaris announced cheerfully, like a flight steward at the end of a trip.

"If you get the chance, could you possibly try to recover the neutron radiation emitter which I planted on the prowler? It was a birthday gift, and it's quite valuable," Collins requested, settling back down when he received a quick affirmative nod from Tyrone.

With the plans finalized and perfected to the best of their ability, the lucky five people who were going to partake in the assault climbed the ladder into the upper hold and grabbed their weapons. Sam picked up her BR55 and quickly inspected it. She took out a small rag and ran it across the barrel of the weapon, clearing away any stray dust particles. Alex was doing the same with his SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle, cleaning the barrel and the sights so that nothing could impede his ability to aim and fire.

Mr. Peruski walked over to his footlocker, which he and Alley Garris had taken with them from Riverside to Florida, and then later onto the phantom. He opened it, revealing Penelope, his battered old M6J Carbine which he had named after his late wife. He had even engraved the name into both sides of the carbine's stock. The old man scrutinized the small rust buildup on the rifle butt for a second before hocking up a lugie and spitting on it, rubbing the loose rust away.

"Which model is that?" Alex asked Alley Garris as the red-haired retired marine pulled his weapon out of Mr. Peruski's footlocker. The assault rifle obviously wasn't the MA6A model used by the military nowadays; it looked older, more like one of the models used during the war.

"MA5B," Garris replied proudly, scratching his thick red beard before attending to his weapon, "This baby's kept me alive ever since Alpha Halo. Never understood why they switched over to the MA5C after that battle…trading a 60-round magazine for a 32-round one…dumbasses…"

"No kidding, you were on Alpha Halo?" Alex sounded skeptical, "How'd you escape?"

"That's classified," was all Garris offered in response.

Tyrone stepped over the crates of ammunition and headed straight over to one of the cryo-pods. He knelt down and carefully removed one of the armor panels at the base of the cryo-pod, reaching inside the gap and pulling out his prized M90 shotgun, cradling it like a newborn. "Oh, how I've missed you, old friend," he said to the shotgun before standing up and draping a belt of eight-gauge shotgun shells over his head and shoulder. "Uptight bastard…never answers me no matter _how_ happy I am to see it again," he explained to the rest of the group.

Once everyone was all geared up and ready to go, they climbed back down the ladder into the main hold.

Colonel Angiers handed Tyrone a small data crystal square with a perfect circle cut out of the center. The circle was glowing purple, signifying the presence of an AI within the square. Polaris projected his detective avatar above the circle. "_Please_ don't lose me," the AI sighed, "Spending an eternity in one of these wafers is not very high on my things-to-do list." Tyrone merely chuckled and reassured the AI that everything would go perfectly, pocketing the crystal square.

"Everyone ready?" Alex asked the others, who all nodded or gave other forms of the affirmative. They didn't waste any more time.

The medium-sized round deployment hole in the middle of the floor glowed indigo as the grav lift came to life. Tyrone took one look at the beam of indigo light which would safely lower him to the ground and rolled his eyes. Instead, he simply sprinted towards one of the side openings and leaped off the edge, vanishing as he dropped out of sight to the ground twenty feet below. Alex and Sam followed suit without much hesitation.

Alley Garris and Mr. Peruski, however, did not have augmented skeletons, so they used the grav lift. "See you boys on the other side," Mr. Peruski nodded to Waters, Collins, and Angiers as the grav lift took hold of him and carried him down.


	14. Chapter 13: Blackout

Chapter Thirteen: Blackout

**0145 Hours, August 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Four klicks north of Farseer Epsilon Listening Outpost, Unknown Island**

As he hit the soft earth, Alex executed a swift somersault, taking away the impact of the twenty-foot drop from the invisible phantom hovering in the air above. An identical thud followed up by crunching leaves heralded Sam's landing right next to him.

"You good?" Tyrone whispered to his former teammates. Alex and Sam both touched their forefingers and thumbs together in a circle, the universal 'okay' signal.

Alley Garris and Mr. Peruski descended down through the indigo grav lift, appearing out of thin air as they left the protection of the phantom's active camouflage. The moment they hit the ground, the indigo pillar of light faded away, shrouding the field in darkness. Garris and Peruski both strapped on their night-vision goggles and joined the three Spartans at the edge of the field.

"Stick to the plan," Alex reminded everyone, "Keep to the shadows. Don't let them see you until we can get Polaris into their network. Polaris, you may have to act fast, so be ready."

The smart AI gave a hum of acknowledgment from Tyrone's pocket.

"Advance team; go," Alex nodded to Sam and Tyrone. They nodded back and vanished into the underbrush, silently making their way through the trees in the direction of the insurrectionist listening outpost on the other side of the island.

For a moment, Alex lamented at the fact that he didn't have his old armor. Not only did it provide life-saving protection, it also provided HUD support; showing the locations of friendlies and hostiles with the motion tracker. Here, his only protection was the black jacket which he had donned to blend into the darkness. It was just like his earliest days of training on Onyx, when the instructors had the pre-teen Spartans of Gamma Company running training operations with nothing except clothes and weapons. He would have to eyeball it.

"Backup team; move out," Alex started to head into the underbrush after his comrades, gesturing with his head for Garris and Peruski to follow. The chirping of crickets and frogs were the only sounds in the woods; the rest of the wildlife was either asleep or incredibly stealthy.

The backup team didn't follow the path of the advance team; instead Alex led his two teammates in an altered route through the woods, continuing on until they reached another meadow.

The light from the campfire nearly blinded Garris and Peruski, both of whom were wearing night goggles. For them, it was like putting the sun in front of their faces.

Alex quickly turned away to preserve his precious night vision and covered his eyes. He turned back and parted his fingers slightly, enough to be able to see the campfire, but not enough for the light to weaken his night vision. He counted three silhouettes seated around the flames. They were a good distance away from the listening outpost; too far to be a patrol…maybe they were simply spending the night in the woods…Alex shook his head. _Why_ they were out here was irrelevant; they were obstacles which had to be removed, and fast. The Spartan slammed his fist into the air, his elbow bent at a sharp right angle and the two retired marines crouched down, waiting for direction.

"Get invisible; I'll waste these three…" Alex said in a barely perceptible whisper, dropping down onto his stomach and unslinging his sniper rifle. He reached down to his belt and drew out the long black cylinder which had been secured to his left leg and screwed it onto the barrel of the sniper rifle. With the silencer on, Alex would have to make some slight adjustments to his aim, but it was nothing which he couldn't handle.

After Garris and Peruski hid themselves in the shrubbery, Alex gingerly brought his sniper rifle into its firing position and took aim at the three individuals around the campfire. He focused the sights and made the minute adjustments to account for the range of the targets. He nudged the rifle to the right and centered the crosshairs onto the head of one of the men sitting at the fire. The Spartan drew a breath and closed his eyes, his mind flashing back to the countless other times he had performed this routine during the war. A calm, cool sense of purpose, the feeling every sniper felt before a kill, washed over Alex, and he held his breath. His eyes snapped open and his finger squeezed the trigger. The sniper rifle gave a slight cough through the silencer as opposed to the customary sharp report of a normal shot as the 14.5mm x 114mm Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding Sabot—or APFSDS for short—round was propelled out of the barrel, through the air, and into the skull of one of the three men at the camp fire.

Alex readjusted his aim and dropped the other two insurrectionists with clean, perfect headshots before they had a chance to react. "Hostiles eliminated; move up," he whispered to his two teammates. Garris and Peruski broke cover and moved up to the campfire, checking to make sure the three men were dead. Mr. Peruski nudged one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. "Mm-hm, they definitely ain't gettin' back up," the old man confirmed.

Alex stood up, sliding a new magazine into his sniper rifle's chamber and taking the lead once more, heading across the field towards the woods on the other side. "Come on, we have to keep up with the advance team," the Spartan urged them forward.

The backup team moved into the woods, still sweeping the area for sentries and patrols, but finding nothing. The advance across the length of the island towards the listening outpost was uneventful for most of the way; after all, why would sentries and patrols be posted out as far as the other end of the island? It wasn't every day they expected a cloaked phantom dropship to appear in their backyard.

The advance and backup teams didn't run into any patrols until they both came within half a klick from the outpost. "Alex," Sam's voice issued from Ambrose's earpiece, quiet enough for only him to hear. "Hostile patrol sighted…we're getting close."

"Acknowledged, advance team; hold your position," Alex whispered back, "Wait for my team to get into position before advancing."

"Copy that…advance team out."

"Where are we headed?" Garris whispered as Alex led him and Mr. Peruski through the dense foliage.

"When we passed over the listening outpost during our landing, I saw a knoll located just a few hundred yards north of the outpost. I can't really think of a better place to snipe from than there," Alex explained.

Garris and Peruski shared a surprised glance. When they had passed over the outpost, they hadn't been able to see through the darkness shrouding its perimeter, let alone the topographic details. Even if they had been wearing night goggles at the time, the phantom had passed by the outpost in a matter of seconds, too fast to have gotten a good look at the ground anyway. These Spartans were really something else.

Alex crawled through the last hundred yards of underbrush between his team and the knoll near the outpost. The hill itself was covered in shrubberies and foliage, providing ideal natural camouflage for anyone who wanted to kill the outpost's inhabitants from a long range. Suddenly, just as the team was starting to get into position, the faint cracks and pops of snapping twigs came out of the darkness nearby.

Alex's ears perked up immediately in reaction to the sounds; they were as loud as gunshots to him. Sam and Tyrone were farther away than those sounds, but even if they were close by, they wouldn't be making as much of a racket. Reverting to hand signals, Alex gestured sharply for Garris and Peruski to hide in the underbrush before crawling into a shrub himself.

Not a moment too soon, either. A patrol of five men emerged from the nearby trees, their weapons raised and their eyes vigilant.

"And, what a surprise, _nothing_ on this hill or the _rest_ of the northern perimeter," one of the insurrectionists grumbled.

The others muttered in agreement. "Why of all nights did the perimeter sensors decide to squawk _tonight_?" another man complained as the patrol made their way onto the knoll, prodding through the bushes. "I mean, this is the first time I've managed to come off-duty in time for a proper night's sleep, only to have Coulson send us all out on another fucking goose-chase-"

"Don't let Commissar Henson hear you talking like that," a third man, clearly the patrol's leader, warned the complainer.

"Well, we all know it's true," the second man grunted, "Every time a bird sneezes or a worm farts and a sensor just so happens to be in the mood to chirp, the captain goes ape-shit! Every single fucking time we have to go out on these goddamn patrols, combing the forest for phantoms and ghosts, only to have the technician report a faulty unit the next morning in time for us to start our shifts all over a-fucking-gain! Why should tonight be any different?"

"Alright, Jamison, that's enough for one night," the squad leader sighed, turning to another one of his men, "Ewell, you've been potty-dancing for the past hour; go do your business."

"Thank you, sir," one of the insurrectionists said gratefully in a relieved tone. Alex watched him hurry over to a tall, thick shrub several meters away. The Spartan heard the zip of the man opening his fly followed by a steady trickling sound.

"Piss on _me,_ fuckface?!"

The last thing the startled insurrectionist saw was an elderly man wielding a carbine, his face red with fury, explode out of the shrub which he was urinating into before the old man drew and raised his silenced pistol, dropping him with a clean shot to the head.

"What the-" was all the nearest insurrectionist managed to stammer before a pair of strong hands came out of the darkness behind him, grabbed him by the head, and twisted violently. The man's head went limp with a resounding crack, dangling at an impossible angle. Alley Garris quickly drew his silenced pistol after casting the newly-created corpse away.

The squad leader acted fast, but not fast enough. "Ruthers! Contact Coulson, tell him that intruders are-" was all the man managed to say before a combat knife came flying out of a third shrub, hitting him right in the middle of the forehead with a sickening thwack.

The remaining two insurrectionists were both simultaneously taken down by well-aimed shots from Garris and Mr. Peruski. "Area clear; all hostiles eliminated," Garris reported formally before breaking out into a huge smile, "That was fun…"

"You call getting pissed all over _fun_, boy? Are you out of your ginger-ass mind?" Mr. Peruski gave the back of Garris's head a sharp slap, shaking his own head irritably, "I hope Sam Ambrose an' Ty-what's-his-face get Sherlock into the outpost's network soon; Penelope's startin' to feel deprived…" the old man patted his carbine, which he was not allowed to fire until the outpost's communications had been cut, "She'll teach 'em _all_ what happens when you decide to take a golden shower on _me_..."

"Long as you don't indulge her _before_ Polaris cuts communications…" Alex hissed, emerging from his own shrub and getting back down onto his stomach, maneuvering into a spot on the edge of the knoll overlooking both the inside of the walled outpost and the woods surrounding the northern gate, which was guarded by two men who thankfully hadn't heard the brief fight which had just taken place. Garris and Mr. Peruski hunkered down behind him, ready to provide support if things went south.

"Advance team, this is Eagle-Eye; we are in position," Alex whispered into his COM, using his old call-sign, "What's your status, over?"

"Impatient as hell, sniper-boy," Tyrone's response was, "Waiting for your go-ahead."

"Sprint for the gate, on my mark…" Alex murmured, briefly switching his scope to thermal and sweeping through the woods to make sure that there weren't any more patrols between the advance team and the outpost. Satisfied that the area was clear, he switched back to normal and returned his gaze to the outpost's gate.

Timing would be everything. The gate guards would have to be taken out one right after the other to allow the advance team access, but it would have to be done at a time when there were no other men in the compound in a position to be able to see their comrades at the gate suddenly take a permanent nap. If they saw the guards fall or the advance team at the gate, they would alert their superiors and reinforcements would be called in from the mainland. If that happened, both teams would be up the famous Shit Creek without a paddle.

Alex noticed that he was starting to hyperventilate, so he moved into a more comfortable position, took a swig of water from his canteen, and forced himself to breathe more slowly. "Standby…" he murmured, centering his crosshairs onto one of the guards and keeping an eye on a pair of soldiers patrolling the inside of the compound. "Standby…" the soldiers walked right up to the pair of soldiers guarding the gate and struck up a conversation. They talked for around two minutes before the original pair of guards headed off into the compound towards one of the barracks.

The moment the pair of men ducked into their barracks and vanished, Alex gave the order. "Mark," he said, squeezing the trigger twice. The two new gate guards slumped down at almost the exact same time.

Even before they hit the ground, two silhouettes broke cover from their hiding spot and flitted forward towards the gate. As they moved into the outpost's lights, they flattened themselves to the walls, keeping to the shadows.

Just as Sam and Tyrone cleared the gate, they slid over to the nearest building which appeared to be some sort of COM center, probably one of the places where the listening outpost's staff did their listening. If that was the case, it would be the best place for Polaris to hack into their systems.

Then all hell began to break loose.

The door of the building swung open and a yawning man emerged, probably on his way to his barracks. Alex, who had been watching the groups of soldiers milling about the rest of the facility, just managed to adjust his aim when the sharp _**BANG**_ of Tyrone's shotgun rang out, loud as a cannon shot. The man was blown back into the building by the force of the eight-gauge shell ripping into his chest.

The patrols and groups of insurrectionists all stopped dead in their tracks for a full second before the actual sound registered in their brains as that of a hostile weapon. Realizing that they were under attack, men began to shout and scream, yelling orders to subordinates and organizing them. The barracks doors flew open and men began to stream out, weapons at the ready.

Sam and Tyrone ducked inside the building, their weapons raised as well. Even from the knoll, the backup team could see the bright flashes of weaponsfire as Sam and Tyrone took care of anyone still in the building. "Alex!" Sam's voice issued from Ambrose's earpiece, "It's done; Polaris is in their system, their communications are history! Now if you wouldn't mind getting your ass down here and giving us a hand?!"

"On my way," Alex responded, killing the channel. He turned to Garris and Mr. Peruski and, abandoning hand signals, told them to follow. "Alright, we're going in. Their communications have been cut, so there's no longer any need to worry about staying silent."

Mr. Peruski tightened his grip on Penelope, giving his carbine a good pat as he and his teammates broke cover and made their way down the side of the knoll towards the open northern gate. The backup team sprinted through the gate and hurried inside the building where Sam and Tyrone were before the whole place turned into a bullet-fest.

The insurrectionists outside formed a perimeter around the COM building and opened fire, sending a storm of bullets tearing into the structure. The windows all shattered, forcing the intruders to duck down and cover their faces for a few moments to shield against flying glass.

As Garris and Sam began to return fire through the shattered windows, Polaris appeared over one of the consoles, a satisfied,even cheerful, expression on his face. "I have gleaned all useful data which may be integral to our mission in the future," he announced contentedly before pausing to take a look around. "My, what _have_ you done to the place?"

"Where's the damn prowler, Polaris?!" Sam growled at the AI through clenched teeth, loosing off another three-round burst into the chest and neck of one of the insurrectionists. The man went down in a heap, his life essence spreading out around him in an ever-growing pool. As Mr. Peruski hefted Penelope and aimed her through the windows at the attacking insurrectionists, taking them down one by one with precise shots, shouting "Piss on _this_ you sonsofbitches!", the insurrectionists fell back and took cover around and behind the surrounding buildings, firing around walls and over rocks.

"The prowler appears to be in a subterranean hangar bay," Polaris replied, discerning the location of Collins's neutron radiation emitter.

"Well that's just wonderful!" Sam shouted back, ducking as a spray of bullets whizzed through her window, "How do we _get_ there?!"

"Analyzing…" Polaris hesitated, consulting the schematics and layout of the outpost before drawing up a plan, "The nearest access to the subterranean hangar bay is in the operations center, right in front of us."

"Well it's kinda occupied right now!" Garris exclaimed.

"Yes, the insurrectionists appear to be utilizing that very building as their main defense…that does not necessarily help our plans…Calculating alternate route…"

"Alex!" Tyrone shouted, gesticulating frantically to the right side of the operations building, "They've got a Jackhammer, two o' clock!"

Alex rested the barrel of his sniper rifle on one of the vacant windows off to the side, out of the main line of enemy fire, and looked out in the direction which Tyrone had pointed. Sure enough, a woman bearing a Jackhammer rocket launcher had emerged from one of the barracks, heading right for their building. His stomach churned; if they were hit by rockets, it would be 'Good-Bye, World!'. He adjusted his sights and fired a single shot. It was enough; the woman with the rocket launcher went down, her head flopping back in a spray of red. "Jackhammer down!"

"Keep an eye on it; I don't want anyone picking it back up!" Tyrone thundered, drawing his pistol and taking a few shots at a bold insurrectionist edging out from behind his cover, "Polaris, we need that goddamn route!"

"A nearby alternate way into the subterranean hangar is via the service entrance through the maintenance center; technicians would utilize a certain service corridor to go straight to the ships in the hangar bay in the event of a malfunction in-"

"That'll be fine!" Tyrone cut Polaris off, "Alex, you're with me!"

Alex moved to get up, but before he could stand he noticed another man picking up the dropped rocket launcher. He crouched back down and took aim, but right as he was about to fire a grenade sailed through the window and came to rest behind him. "Grenade!!" he screamed, diving for the frag, grabbing it, and hurling it back out the window with all his strength. It exploded just after it sailed back through, putting a sizeable indentation in the ground.

Unfortunately, the grenade had distracted Alex long enough for the insurrectionist picking up the fallen rocket launcher to prep it and take aim. The Spartan had just enough time to scream "Down!" before the insurrectionist fired, sending a blazing rocket streaking right into the side of the COM building.

There was an almighty explosion as the rocket hit, blowing a huge gap in the wall and hurling the Spartans and ex-marines across the room.

Alex's ears were ringing and his vision was blurry; normal shell-shock symptoms. Shrapnel from the rocket and a few pieces of broken glass had been propelled straight into his right side and abdomen, allowing blood to flow freely. The sniper shook his head and cleared it, ignoring the pain throbbing up from his stomach and standing up. He limped over to Tyrone and gave his old team leader a nod.

"Polaris, can you shut down the outpost's lights?!" Sam asked the AI, nursing a newly created gash on her arm, "The rebels don't look like they have night-vision gear! Darkness would give _us_ the advantage!"

Polaris didn't even give her an answer; he vanished, delving straight into the outpost's secure power systems, ripping apart the matrices protecting them layer by layer with the efficiency of lava through ice. He found the appropriate controls for the outpost's lights and completely trashed them. The result: instant darkness. Well, almost; several insurrectionists had flashlights on their weapons or on their belts, and there were two spotlights powered by emergency backup generators.

Despite that, Alex and Tyrone quietly stole out of the COM building while the insurrectionists got their act together, sprinting along the perimeter of the walls until they reached another building, presumably the mess hall. They waited there until they could hear the sounds of weaponsfire as the rebels resumed their attack on the COM building. "Move up," Tyrone whispered, pointing towards the maintenance center, which was situated a hundred yards away.

A group of soldiers, probably one of the recently-returned patrols from the woods to the south, jogged past to reinforce their comrades at the COM building, but they missed the two shadows which didn't quite fit in with the building they were hiding behind. Once they were past and gone, the two shadows broke cover and flitted across the compound to the maintenance building.

Alex limped over to the door and, finding it locked, gestured for his comrade to handle it. Tyrone racked the pump of his shotgun and emptied two shells into the door's hinges; one for the top and one for the bottom, following up with a strong kick. The door crumpled like tinfoil.

"Stairs," Tyrone pointed to the far corner of the garage-like room full of equipment and tables. Sure enough, there was a metal ladder which led down at least thirty feet underground.

The two Spartans slid down the ladder's rails and hit the floor, finding themselves in a long, white hallway illuminated by glow-strip lights built among the now-dark normal lights into the ceiling. The Spartans pounded down the rest of the corridor, which was at least a quarter-mile long, until it opened up into another huge, garage-like room. The only difference between this room and the maintenance room, besides its size, was the fact that the ceiling was obviously retractable and there were three ships occupying the floor space.

Two of them were modified pelican dropships, but the third took up most of the space in the hangar. It looked like a miniature version of a frigate, only its hull was pure black; identifying it as a prowler. This was the ship which had taken Robin away from his home to this place...

The deployment ramp was already down; the prowler's skeleton crew had disembarked already, leaving it empty. Tyrone crossed over to the control console, which no doubt was what controlled the retractable ceiling, pulling Polaris's data crystal out of his pocket. As he neared the console, Polaris flickered into existence over it, walking onto the square data crystal and vanishing. When he vanished, the hole in the crystal started to glow purple as he occupied the space.

"Come on," Tyrone led Alex up the deployment ramp and into the ship. Alex stopped in the prowler's entrance chamber, leaning against the doorway, his breathing becoming labored. "I think that rocket hit me a little worse than I thought…" the Spartan mumbled, slumping down to the floor and clasping his bleeding side in pain, "I'll be fine here…I'll keep your six clear…get Polaris to the bridge and find out where this ship has been…"

"I'll raid the medical bay too," Tyrone added as he headed off into the bowels of the prowler, "We have no medical supplies, and you sure could use some."

The African-American made his way through the corridors of the prowler, climbing up several ladders as well until he reached the prowler's bridge; the largest room on the ship aside from the weapons bay where HORNET mines were usually loaded.

He walked up to the navigation console and held out Polaris's data crystal. The purple glow winked out as the holographic detective appeared over it and walked off into the prowler's console. "Back in a jiffy," the smart AI vanished, immersing himself into the prowler's databanks. He ignored the non-essential systems and paid close attention to the flight logs, noting the information for future reference. His job finished, he reappeared above the console and walked back into his data crystal. "It is done; I have the records of every location this ship has been to in the past week, which should be more than enough. Would you like to see it?"

"Not yet," Tyrone shook his head, "It's no use looking at it until we're back aboard the _Salvation_. Keep it safe, aight?"

"Naturally," Polaris gave one last smile, tipped his fedora, and vanished into his crystal, which Tyrone slipped into his pocket.

Tyrone, his mission now complete, headed back down the ladder into the main corridor, taking a detour off to the right and stumbling into the medical bay. There, he quickly grabbed a medic's bag with a red cross in a white circle stitched into one of the sides, sitting on the ground next to the doorway. Holding the bag open, the Spartan gathered every bandage, bio-foam canister, and medical supply which he could find, filling the bag as full as possible. Once the medic's bag was bulging full, he zipped it shut and slung it over a shoulder, making his way back out into the corridor.

Alex, whose piercing blue eyes were beginning to glaze over by the time Tyrone returned, staggered to his feet. Tyrone laid him back down onto the floor and pulled out one of the canisters of bio-foam, inserting its nozzle into one of Alex's wounds.

Alex winced and fidgeted uncomfortably as the tissue-regenerative foam polymer expanded throughout his abdominal cavity, sealing the wounds and stemming the blood-flow. The downside of bio-foam was the fact that it stung; Alex felt as if his stomach and abdomen were being set upon by fire ants, but the pros of the polymer always outweighed the cons.

"Can you walk?" Tyrone asked his friend. Alex gave a nod and got back up onto his feet. Together, the two Spartans clambered down the loading ramp. Before they hit the corridor, Tyrone quickly walked around to the spot on the prowler's hull which Bill Collins had indicated and pulled off the neutron radiation emitter, dropping it into the medical bag. With everything done and taken care of, the two Spartans sprinted all the way back down the corridor to the maintenance building. They pulled themselves up the ladder and crouched down in front of one of the maintenance center's windows, observing the still-raging firefight at the COM center. Sam, Garris, and Mr. Peruski were still managing to keep the attacking insurrectionists at bay, but it was clear that they were on borrowed time.

"Polaris, contact Colonel Angiers, tell him to pick us up," Alex said to the smart AI. There was a pause for several seconds before Polaris acknowledged and informed them that the phantom was on its way.

Alex hefted his sniper rifle and crouched at the doorway, taking aim at the trio of insurrectionists charging at the COM building from its unprotected left flank. He centered in his crosshairs and took two of them out in quick succession. The third one reached the COM building, but found himself staring down the barrel of Penelope once he gained entry. The last thing he saw was the flash of the M6J Carbine firing.

As the two Spartans watched from the maintenance shed, they saw a third insurrectionist stumble upon the twice-dropped Jackhammer rocket launcher. Alex took aim at the man as he started to fire the Jackhammer's double tubes at the COM building, but suddenly a hail of searing bluish-white plasma bolts screamed out of thin-air, killing half a dozen attackers on the spot and wounding several more, including the man wielding the Jackhammer. The insurrectionists broke cover and scattered, driven away by the devastating plasmafire which seemed to come out of thin air.

Even though they couldn't see the phantom because of its cloaking device, the Spartans and ex-marines could see the pillar of indigo light which made up the grav-lift sparkle into existence, revealing the medium-sized deployment hole in the floor of the main hold. Sam sprinted out of the COM building with Alley Garris slung over her shoulder, Mr. Peruski hobbling up behind her. They reached the column of indigo light and were drawn up into the belly of the phantom, though to an outsider it looked as if they had simply disappeared.

"Move!" Tyrone roared, dragging Alex behind him as he bounded towards the grav-lift. Dodging the weaponsfire of the insurrectionists who had managed to regroup, the two Spartans crossed the distance between the maintenance center and the phantom in roughly seven seconds, leaping into the indigo light. As the indigo light of the grav-lift washed over him, Tyrone cried out in pain and surprise, pain blossoming in his lower left leg as a stray bullet struck him above the ankle, but he regained his composure just as quickly as the bullet which had caused him to lose it.

The familiar feeling of weightlessness took hold of the pair, drawing them upwards.

"Get us the hell _out of here_!!" Tyrone shouted as he and Alex rose up into the main hold, the grav-lift depositing them onto the floor. The indigo light faded, it's job complete.

"With pleasure," Angiers, who was sitting at the controls in the cockpit, grunted in response. He fired up the phantom's engines and the dropship soared up into the air, leaving the survivors of the devastated listening outpost dazed and confused as the ones who had caused them so much destruction vanished into the ether.


	15. Chapter 14: Welcome to Shawshank

Chapter Fourteen: Welcome to Shawshank

**1100 Hours, August 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region**

The first thing Robin was aware of when he stirred was the sour taste in his mouth. He grimaced, running his tongue over his teeth to get rid of the taste. His dreams had been troubled; fuzzy, indistinct…the one thing he _could_ remember was the voice…a young voice; that of a boy probably close to his own age, speaking to him in an urgent tone…

The eleven-year-old did not know where he was, nor did he know _why_ he was where he was. He knew that his abductors had plans for him, plans which they had assured him that he would, in the end, carry out…but he did not know what these plans were.

He knew that he was no longer on Earth, or even in UNSC space for that matter. They had left on a prowler, a stealth vessel; no one would possibly be able to find him. Not the military, not even his parents, no one.

Robin Ambrose was alone.

"Oi! Common, if you don't wake up soon, they'll jab you!"

There it was again. Robin's brow furrowed as he recalled it. He did not know who that voice belonged to, but it was definitely the one from his dreams.

Robin cracked open his eyes, taking in the grand view of a gray stone wall. He was in a cell; that much was evident. The room was roughly twenty feet by twenty feet, not cramped, but at the same time not particularly spacious. There was a metal door set into one of the walls with a covered slit which could be opened from the other side and peered through. A small window was set into the wall opposite the door, providing the only source of light in the cell as the sun rose outside. The window was set near the ceiling, too high for Robin to reach, and it had bars crisscrossing its expanse, rendering it completely impenetrable if Robin _had_ managed to reach it.

The eleven-year-old let out a yawn, sat up, and moved to stretch his cramped arms, but was stopped short by a tugging on his wrists. He twisted around and saw that his hands were locked up behind his back in a heavy pair of irons which resembled a figure 8. He strained and flexed, trying to shatter the metal, but the only thing he achieved was bleeding wrists. Normally he would have been able to shatter something like those irons, but the way his hands were bound prevented him from acquiring sufficient leverage. Not even a Spartan could rip apart solid titanium with nothing brute brute arm-strength, and Robin wasn't even a teenager yet.

"Admirable, but futile," the voice chuckled, sounding amused at Robin's efforts, "Unless titanium has become overrated since the last time I checked?"

Robin's eyes refocused and he turned back around, getting his first full look of the cell. Sitting in the other corner of the back wall, both of his ankles shackled together and secured to the ground by a thick chain, was a ragged, frail boy of twelve or thirteen. His face was pale and smeared with grime, his jet-black hair unkempt and ragged, and his complexion unhealthy. His eyes were blue, not electric blue like Robin's, but a softer shade. He wore a filthy, torn shirt which was more of a rag, and cloth shorts which had once been pants, but frayed off just over the knees. Despite his appearance, he had a wily aura about him, and his eyes still contained a mischievous glint. Whatever this place was, it hadn't gotten to him yet.

"They cut out your tongue before they dragged you in here, or am I just not on your list of people worth talking to?" the other boy inquired the eleven-year-old, "If it's my appearance, then by all means, sneak me into the guard's showers and I'll-"

"Who are you and where am I?!" Robin cut the other boy off, getting straight to the point.

"Straightforward and direct…no blubbering or crying either…" the thirteen-year-old nodded slowly, eyeing Robin up, "Surprising, given your age, but I am not complaining…but I digress. I am both older than you and I have been a prisoner in this cell longer; so I think you should tell me _your_ name first," the other boy gave Robin an encouraging smile and gestured for him to speak.

Robin gave a shrug. After all, what harm could come from telling someone his name? It's not as if the situation could get any worse. "Okay, I'm Robin Ambrose. There, you asked me for my name and I've given it to you. Your turn."

"Okay, okay…geez, you need to lighten up a bit," the other boy chuckled. He pulled himself to his feet and gave Robin an elegant bow, saying, "And now for my end of the bargain. My name is Blaze. I have no last name; that's one of the side-effects of being found as an infant, abandoned on the side of a road."

"Blaze?" Robin cocked an eyebrow, "What kind of a name is that?"

"Well, it's not my _real_ name," Blaze admitted, "But it's what people call me. Well, around here I'm _worthless scum_, _runt_, _traitor_, and any number of combinations of rather colorful expletives which the Guardsmen can come up with, but back where I _came from_, Blaze was what people called me, don't ask why."

"What planet is this? Sigma Octanus IV? Libria? Tarses?"

Now it was Blaze's turn to raise a quizzical eyebrow. He had never heard of any of those planets before. "Where are you from?"

"Oh, New York, that's where my mom and dad moved after the war," Robin explained, but all he got in response was a blank stare. "New York?" he tried again, "Earth?"

A smile broke out across the older boy's face. "Oh, I get it," he guffawed, "You're from Earth, the capital world of the UNSC; that's funny. Ha-ha, okay, now the joke is over. Where are you _really_ from?"

"Joke?" Robin repeated, confused, "What do you mean, joke? I'm from Earth, is that a crime?"

"You-" Blaze's smile slowly faded when he realized that the eleven-year-old was telling the truth, "Oh my God, you _are_ from Earth," he gawked, eyeing Robin with a mixture of suspicion and awe, "What-_how_ did you end up here? I mean, it's not as if we're Earth's next-door neighbors…and yes, here it would be a crime to be from Earth," he added with a mirthless chuckle, "You are on the planet Nemesis III…the second-largest hub in the Magistarium."

"The what?" Robin asked the other boy, completely bewildered.

"Wow, you really _aren't_ from around here…" Blaze shook his head in wonder, still wrapping his mind around that realization. The concept of a foreigner from another planet was uncommon on Nemesis III, let alone one from a different part of the Orion Arm; from the UNSC which, up until recently, hadn't known that the Insurrectionists still existed. "Well, we used to be the URF—United Rebel Front—but last year the High Chancellor decided to change the name to the 'Magistarium', probably because he didn't like how the old name still made us—_them_—sound like petty terrorists. I do have to admit, though, 'Magistarium' _does_ have more of a ring to it…"

Robin sighed and rested back on the wall, closing his eyes and digesting this new information. "Well, I know that I'm on a planet called Nemesis III, but what is _this_ place? Some sort of prison?"

Blaze gave another mirthless laugh. "A prison? Oh, no, this is much worse than a prison. This, my young friend, is a Cruciamentum, a processing facility. This is where children and minors who don't quite agree with our lovely government go for summary indoctrination."

"Children in a place like this? Why only kids?"

Blaze's lip curled in a cold smile, one that did not reach his eyes. "There are no adults here because only troublesome kids are sent for summary indoctrination. Adults who challenge the Magistrate are executed."

Robin's eyes widened in shock, but Blaze just gave a shrug. With a man like High Chancellor Delmar at the helm, simple executions were one of the least surprising aspects of the Magistarium.

The two boys sat in silence for what seemed like hours. The dim rays of sunlight shining from the window, which opened out onto the street level of a ghetto—South Mire Ghetto, Blaze had called it—began to grow brighter and angle down towards the ground as the sun traveled through the sky towards the opposite horizon. A flap at the base of the cell door was slid open and a plate of slop was tossed into the room, sending most of the food—if that's what it deserved to be called—onto the floor. Blaze hobbled over, his walking made awkward by his chains, and scraped the gray sludge back onto the plate. He then took the plate and, making his way over to the window, shoved the slop out onto the street. "Trust me on this one," he said, returning to his spot in the corner. Robin settled back and curled up in his own corner, resigning himself to an empty, growling stomach.

Another hour or two passed before the silence was finally broken when Robin, fueled by his insatiable curiosity, asked Blaze, "So what are _you_ in here for?"

"Trust me, you _don't_ want to know," the older boy replied, "But I'll probably end up being executed soon anyway, so why not tell you…I grew up in an orphanage—if you can call them orphanages; they were more like workhouses. They would have us up sunup until sundown, working in an arms manufacturing facility. I escaped from the place when I was seven and spent another year living on the streets with nothing but the clothes on my back. Now before you take that for granted, our cities are nothing like yours," Blaze was careful to explain, "Sure, they may _look_ alike; tall buildings, closely-packed homes and businesses, tight streets. The difference between our cities and yours is that surviving in one of our cities is a completely different universe. To live on the streets in Tethys—the city where I grew up—was to find safe places to curl up every night where the Paladins wouldn't be able to find you and cart you off to another orphanage or military facility. By day you would have to find food and water. Every time, you'd have to steal, and every time you stole, you were risking death, or worse. To say the least; the fact that I survived for an entire year at only seven years old is no small feat," the older boy declared, puffing his chest out proudly, "But I wouldn't have lasted very much longer if they hadn't found me."

"Who?" Robin asked, "If _who_ hadn't found you?"

Blaze instinctively glanced around the room, accustomed to living a lifetime of checking to make sure that no one was around when he uttered the name of the people who he had worked for since he was eight years old. "The Illuminati," he whispered, "Be careful where you say that; in most places simply uttering that name could earn you a knife across your throat. See, not everyone is just bowing down and eating the Magistrate's crap like good, docile little dogs. Don't get me wrong, most people are doing just that, but not everyone…there are some people who chose to resist, who still actively fight back. The Illuminati is a highly extensive, highly organized faction of separatists, underground fighters. Freedom fighters, you could call them, but I suppose the most accurate, and crudest, term would be rebels."

"An insurrection within an insurrection," Robin mused.

"Some people just can't make up their minds, eh?" Blaze snickered, "But the Illuminati are right. Their arguments are sound; this government is _evil_. My luck ran out when I was eight. I was swiping bread from a bakery one day—I hadn't eaten in two days at the time—and the owner caught me. I managed to escape, but he gave my name and description to the Paladins and I was recaptured within several hours. Still, evading the Paladins for several hours without having eaten in two days is also no small accomplishment, but they still found and captured me in the end. It was luck more than anything that saved me; the prison transport I was on drove past the transport of a senior government official, right into an ambush staged by the Illuminati. The Illuminati killed the official and also managed to kill the Paladins in my transport. They found me there…" Blaze smiled at the memory, "I tried to run away, but they took me with them…fed me…gave me a home. For the first time in my life, I _belonged_ someplace; I had friends! And after some time, they offered me a job. See, the children in the Illuminati volunteer to be spies, intelligence sources, placed at key points on all of the planets in the Magistarium. I was stationed here, in the Meillan Region. I operated as an Illuminati spy for four years until last year, when I became a full-fledged operative, running ambushes and attacks in the shadows. Two weeks ago, I was part of an attack on the home of a Magisterial Inquisitor, but the operation was botched; Paladins were all over the place…I was separated from my friends and captured. Been here ever since," he concluded with an almost cheerful tone.

"Wow…that was a long story…" Robin observed, "You must really want someone to talk to."

"Hey, don't judge me! I've had no one to talk to for the past two weeks except for Monty, my imaginary dinosaur! And Jess, but she doesn't count. But enough about me; let's hear about you…" Blaze's tone became more serious and he regarded Robin with a suspicious gaze. "I've got a crazy question for you, but if you are who I _think_ you are, it'll make sense…"

"Shoot."

"Who are your parents?"

"What?" Robin blinked in surprise at the question. What did his parents have to do with this?

"Who are your parents?" Blaze repeated the question patiently, "Just answer, and answer truthfully. You'll help me and the Illuminati a great deal."

"Okay…" Robin murmured, "Their names are Sam and Alex…they're Spartans from the war, with augmentations which gave them superhuman traits and abilities…abilities which I inherited, so technically I could be a Spartan too…"

Blaze nodded, as if he were confirming something he had already suspected. Turns out, he was. "The Illuminati have a contact, someone high up in the Magistarium, someone who has access and knowledge of their top secret plans," the thirteen-year-old explained, "No one knows who this person is…perhaps it's best left that way…but our contact informed the Illuminatus—the leader of the Illuminati—of a huge joint military operation with the Tirque species. They are going to attack the UNSC…they have already started. Even now, forces have been sent to minor colony worlds; but that's not important right now. Our contact informed us that someone was going to be kidnapped from UNSC space, someone who would carry out a special task…and now I find _you_ here. I'm certain that you were the one they were talking about…oh man, this is bad," he shook his head, "This is real bad."

As Robin started to ask what Blaze meant, what this 'task' really was, there was a sharp sliding sound as the locking mechanism in the cell door clicked open. The door swung open, revealing a man completely encased in black garb and armor similar to the UNSC SWAT team armor. The man's head and face was obscured by a full helmet complete with a reflective silver faceplate. Not an inch of skin was showing.

"Hey, Al, how's the world domination coming along?" Blaze asked the armored man.

The man ignored the thirteen-year-old and strode over to Robin, unfastening the chain securing his irons to the wall.

"This, my friend, is a Paladin," Blaze explained to Robin as the armored man unlatched the thick chain, "I call him Al. He doesn't really talk much, and when he does it's all business-like. He should lighten up a bit too…"

"Silence," the Paladin reached down to his belt and drew a two-foot long metal baton. The baton itself hummed quietly and crackled blue with electricity. The Paladin leveled the shock-stick at Blaze and held it in front of his forehead. "I press this to your forehead for ten seconds on the highest setting, and your brain will spill out of your ears after your eyes melt. We'll see how smart your mouth will be then."

"Have it your way, boss," Blaze shrugged and returned to his corner, clamping his mouth shut.

"The Inquisitor wishes to see you," the Paladin hissed to Robin, gripping the eleven-year-old by the collar and effortlessly dragging him out of the cell.

The last thing Robin saw before the Paladin sealed the cell door was Blaze silently mouthing _Good luck_.

* * *

Blaze watched the Paladin drag his cellmate away as the door clanged shut and locked once more. He sat in silence, waiting patiently as the golden rays of the afternoon sun grew dimmer and dimmer and eventually fade into darkness as night set in, shrouding the cell and the ghetto outside in black.

The past two weeks had been almost maddening for him; fourteen days of sitting in this cell and undergoing indoctrination with nothing but his thoughts. His thoughts had been welcome company at the time, but now they plagued him. The Illuminati knew of Robin Ambrose. They didn't know about him personally, but they knew that the Magistrate planned on kidnapping a special individual from UNSC space who had the ability to carry out some special task for the upcoming invasion…only the higher-ranking Illuminati knew what this task was, but Blaze knew that it would be the polar opposite of _pleasant_ for the eleven-year-old. The fact that Robin Ambrose was here, now, in Magistarium space was very, _very_ bad news.

The thirteen-year-old was jerked out of his stupor to full awareness by the sound of a pebble striking one of the bars latticing the small cell window.

Blaze stood up and crossed over to the window, peering out into the darkness. Sure enough, right on time, a small piece of a building's shadow across the street peeled itself away and flitted across the garbage-strewn road. Silently, it reached the sidewalk and crawled right up to the window. It blended in with the shadows so well that when the patrol of guardsmen strolled down the sidewalk past where it lay, they did not even notice anything out of place.

The shadow reached up and pulled off its hood, revealing the face of a blond-haired girl about Blaze's age.

"Geez, Jess, took you long enough," Blaze whispered.

"Yeah, well, breaking into Fontaine's Eatery isn't what it used to be," the girl retorted, lifting up her black jacket and drawing out a wrapped bundle of cloth, "You find a way to escape yet? The others are really starting to worry. If you don't get out of here soon, you'll be executed!"

Blaze shook one of his legs, clinking the shackles and chains which bound his feet together for emphasis. "No, now that you mention it, I haven't. One's options are limited when one's feet are half-immobilized. These don't help either," the thirteen-year-old rapped the window's lattice of iron bars.

The girl, Jess, pushed the bundle through the bars and let out an exasperated sigh. "Well what are we supposed to do?!" she hissed, "We aren't an army; we don't have enough manpower or firepower to storm a Cruciamentum! The Paladins would be all over us in seconds, you _know_ that!"

"Shh!" Blaze put a finger to his lips, eyeing the door nervously. "I'm trying to make a plan…one that just _might_ work. But that's not important right now. I have something to tell you, and you must go straight to Gerald and tell _him_ to inform the Illuminatus. I've located the one who the Magistrate ordered the Shade Branch to kidnap. The one who the Magistrate plan on turning over to the Tirque."

"What? He's _here_?!" Jess exclaimed.

"Better than that; he's my cellmate," Blaze explained, "I might be able to escape with his help. They've already taken him off to see the Inquisitor, so I'll have to move fast before the indoctrination gets to him…he's just a kid; it won't take long for them to break him."

"I'll be at the safehouse for the next week," Jess told Blaze in a hushed tone, pulling her hood back over her head and fastening up her jacket, "If you do manage to escape, that's where we'll go. Now, I have to get out of here before a Paladin spots me," she started to crawl back towards the road, "I'll be back tomorrow. Good luck," she whispered, melting back into the shadows and vanishing.

Blaze trudged back into his corner and slumped down. He grabbed the bundle and unwrapped it, revealing a crispy loaf of bread and two chicken sandwiches. He licked his lips and dug in, but he ate only half the loaf and one of the sandwiches, saving the rest. Once Robin got back from his first bout of indoctrination, he'd need all the energy he could get.


	16. Chapter 15: Close Encounters

Chapter Fifteen: Close Encounters

**0515 Units, 71****st**** Day of the Sun's Embrace, Twelfth Cycle (1****st**** Age of Restoration) \  
Asgard, Delta Aridon System**

_**Divine Radiance**_**, Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression**

The crew of the _Divine Radiance_ was restless. It had been three days since the fleet had left Sanghelios, and they were nearing their destination. Asgard was not too distant from Sanghelios, negating the need to put the crew into suspended animation for the duration of the jump. All ships still had operational suspended animation capabilities; they just did not need to be utilized as often as they had in the past.

With the slipspace drives of over a decade ago, the jump would have taken three weeks to a month, but the new-age drives, crudely simulating the slipspace effect of the Forerunner crystals—but without the radiation—cut jumps down to only a small fraction of their original lengths.

The crew of the _Divine Radiance_ found themselves now at the stage where the slipspace jump was almost over, bringing any lingering or previously-hidden feelings of anxiety and impatience up to a boil.

Fleet Master Iram 'Ovarumee was no exception. After two days of surveying his assault carrier's systems and operations, the zealot had retired to his quarters. He had finally managed to achieve a restless slumber in his quarters when the SHIPCOM unit in the room activated and the familiar voice of Uliq 'Arrolee roused him, requesting his presence on the bridge.

'Ovarumee's mandibles splayed out wide in a yawn as he swung himself out of the bunk. He discarded the fatigues he was wearing and donned the golden armor of the zealot, slipping into it in a matter of seconds. He was still lowering his helmet onto his head as he opened the door and strode out into the corridor. All throughout the residential section of the assault carrier, other Sangheili were repeating the same process; roused and called into duty by comrades and superior officers. Minors, Majors, Ultras, and even Special Ops soldiers alike all moved aside and pressed their right fists to their left-side hearts in a Sangheili salute in respect for the zealot as he passed by.

'Ovarumee answered every salute with a polite nod, brushing past the clumps of soldiers and crewmen with a powerful stride. He came to the end of the corridor and stepped into one of the lifts and let the door hiss closed behind him before stating "Bridge".

The lift lurched upwards through the forward overhang of the assault carrier, although the zealot could only feel a slight tremble as the elevator moved, propelled by evenly-spaced anti-gravity generators placed along the shafts. Even though 'Ovarumee couldn't feel it, the lift's path began to curve. Instead of traveling straight up, the elevator followed the curve of the assault carrier's forward overhang which formed the bow of the ship until it was traveling horizontally towards the carrier's rear. It went down through the neck of the assault carrier which connected the forward overhang to the hangar and command modules which made up the _Divine Radiance's_ midsection.

Had 'Ovarumee requested for the hangar, the lift would have then dropped down to the ship's underbelly, but it instead continued forward on its horizontal trajectory until it reached the command module; a collection of corridors and tactical CP rooms designated with handling day-to-day operations within the ship. In the center of it all was the bridge; the central control hub of the assault carrier, located at the very heart of the ship.

It was an apt location for a bridge compared to those of Human ships. Because it was buried and protected by layers and layers of decks and armor, the only way to disable the bridge would be to either completely destroy the ship, or somehow storm it with a boarding party.

The elevator door hissed open and 'Ovarumee stepped out, moving aside so that a pair of Major domos could enter. After exchanging salutes with the two lesser Sangheili, the zealot made his way down the corridor. There were several more corridors branching off to the sides, but the main one was a dead end. Nevertheless, 'Ovarumee walked right up to the dead end and stood still.

The weight sensors set underneath the floor in front of the wall detected his presence and activated an invisible laser at eye-level. After the laser scanned and recognized the zealot's retinas, the dead end split into quarters and hissed back into the walls, revealing the main bridge.

"Fleet Master on deck!" Uliq 'Arrolee, the _Divine Radiance's_ second in command, barked as the zealot strode onto the bridge, the entrance sealing behind him.

The bridge crew all rose from their stations and snapped to attention, holding their fists to their hearts in a salute.

"Carry on," 'Ovarumee returned the salute and waved his hand, gesturing for the bridge crew to continue their work. The hum of activity in the bridge resumed as 'Ovarumee made his way to the front of the bridge, standing in front of the main viewscreen, which made up most of the bridge's front wall.

It was black and lifeless now because the _Divine Radiance_ was still in the slipstream. There is no visible light in the slipstream for visual sensors to detect, so the viewscreen would remain dark until the ship returned to normal space.

"How long?" 'Ovarumee asked his First Officer as he came up alongside him.

"Half a unit," 'Arrolee replied, checking the ship's chronometer. "One of the longest half-units I've experienced in my lifetime."

'Ovarumee hummed in agreement. The zealot spent the next thirty minutes with all of the bridge crew, working out the final kinks and preparations before the return to normal space. He was eventually reduced to pacing up and down the width of the bridge in front of the main viewscreen for the last few minutes.

The Fleet Master clicked his mandibles in irritation and sat down in his command chair, forcing himself to calm down. His brow furrowed as he contemplated his impatience. Previously, when he had fought the Jiralhanae, and the Humans before that, he had never felt as impatient before a battle as he was feeling now. _I knew my enemy in those days_… the zealot brooded.

Now, the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression was marching into battle once more, but this time no one knew _anything_ about the enemy. Not their intelligence, their technological prowess, their weapons, their personality, not even their _name_. The only shred of anything the Sangheili or the Humans had about the mysterious aliens were two images of their vessels; one sent by a Human frigate and another sent by the colony world of Asgard. That, and the knowledge that they were in some sort of league with the faction of Humans which had broken away from and rebelled against the UNSC.

When a warrior knew what he was up against, he would march into battle with that knowledge and prepare himself accordingly. In this case, the crew of the _Divine Radiance_, and those of all the other vessels in the Fleet, was impatient and anxious because of an inherent and natural fear of the unknown. The aliens attacking Asgard could be primitive as pre-Covenant Jiralhanae, or as advanced as Forerunners. While both of those extremes seemed unlikely, they were still possible.

'Ovarumee was deep enough in thought that he almost jumped when the report was made.

"We're nearing the return to normal space momentarily, Fleet Master," N'saro 'Kirrahee, the helmsman, informed the rest of the bridge crew.

"Make the appropriate arrangements and prepare to drop out of the slipstream at the Fleet Master's command," 'Arrolee ordered the helmsman, who complied by inputting the appropriate commands and bringing the slipspace drive to full readiness.

The next few minutes passed in silence. The bridge crewmembers had run out of ways to occupy their time and were all just sitting at their stations, twiddling their dual thumbs nervously. It was their turn to nearly jump when 'Ovarumee ordered 'Kirrahee to bring the ship out of the slipstream.

The rushing sound of a slipspace transfer was heard, along with an ever-so-slight jolt as the assault carrier returned to normal space. Data began to flow back into the computers and sensors. The viewscreen came to life, showing roughly half of the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression hovering in space in front of the _Divine Radiance_. For the next few seconds, the rest of the vessels in the Fleet sent from Sanghelios flashed into existence all around as they too dropped out of slipspace. Last to arrive with an audible bang was the _Resplendent Rapture_, the Fleet's Supercarrier and command ship, captained by Supreme Commander 'Yeromee.

The crew barely noticed the display, however; their attention was fixed on the colony world of Asgard. The planet had large, blue oceans, green and brown landmasses, and polar icecaps; customary traits of all life-sustaining M-Class planets.

The one thing that set it apart was the dozens of conical, golden alien ships laying waste to it. From the noses of the cone-shaped alien vessels came searing orange beams which looked similar to energy projectors. Wherever they hit the surface of the world, the explosion was faintly visible. There were four dozen of the ships, slightly over half the amount of vessels in the Sangheili Fleet.

"By the Gods…" 'Arrolee breathed, his mandibles slack with shock.

The rest of the crew was silent. They had never seen this before and sure were not enjoying the surprise.

"The _Rapture_ is ordering all Fleet Masters to form up their battlegroups," K'lar 'Reosee, the communications officer, reported, patching the transmission through.

'Ovarumee nodded, expecting as much. As the other two Fleet Masters in the Fleet moved their assault carriers into position and took command of their portions of the Fleet, 'Ovarumee did likewise.

"'Weromee and 'Ulwaree appear to be taking the flanks, so we shall claim the center for ourselves," 'Ovarumee declared, turning in his chair to face 'Kirrahee. "Helm, put us in front of the _Resplendent Rapture_ at the forward defensive position," he ordered before turning back to the communications officer, "'Reosee, contact all of the vessels in my Battlegroup and patch me through."

'Reosee complied and, when he was finished, gestured for 'Ovarumee to speak.

"Brothers," 'Ovarumee spoke, his words heard on the bridges of every other ship in his Battlegroup, "Position yourselves in front of the command vessel. You are to form a staggered line and await further orders. May the Gods be with us all," the zealot concluded, gesturing for 'Reosee to kill the transmission.

As the _Divine Radiance_ took its position at the spearhead of the Sangheili line, the other thirty-odd cruisers and frigates formed up around it in a staggered line, completing the Sangheili formation.

_Now it is a waiting game_… 'Ovarumee thought to himself, keeping his eyes fixed upon the cluster of alien vessels, who had ceased their bombardment of Asgard, turning to face the new threat.

"The alien vessels have ceased their attack and are coming about," Iaro 'Inzaunumee, the Sangheili manning the tactical post, reported.

'Ovarumee nodded, already knowing this. "Raise shields," he ordered, "Bring weapons systems online. Charge up the energy projectors and plot solutions for the forward torpedo launchers. If they so much as sneeze in our general direction, I want us to be ready."

"Yes, Fleet Master," several of the bridge crew murmured, completing their duties.

"Fleet Master, the aliens appear to be hailing us…" 'Reosee interjected, "Supreme Commander 'Yeromee has ordered us to send in a ship to answer the transmission."

'Ovarumee raised an eyebrow, suspicion and uncertainty creeping into his hearts. The aliens had just been blatantly attacking one of the Sangheili-Human worlds; why would they suddenly want to sit down and have a nice little chat? It made no sense.

But, at the same time, 'Ovarumee could not disobey the Supreme Commander's orders, so he obliged and turned to the communications officer. "Signal the _Wondrous Illumination_, have them accept the hail. I want the _Glorious Ascendance_ and the _Supremacy_ to be their shadow. If the exchange goes south, I want our ships out of there."

'Reosee relayed the orders to the respective ships as 'Ovarumee spoke. After he was finished, the _Wondrous Illumination_, one of the frigates in 'Ovarumee's portion of the Fleet, left the staggered line and advanced warily towards the nearly-fifty alien vessels. The other two indicated cruisers remained in the line, but they still positioned themselves on either side of the frigate, ready to leap in at a moment's notice.

As the _Wondrous Illumination_ drew near to the three alien ships which had broken away from their cluster to meet it, it began to slow down until it came to a full stop.

"Fleet Master, they are receiving a transmission from the aliens," 'Reosee reported, "It is garbled…we cannot make anything from it…translators are coming up with nothing."

"Fleet Master, I am detecting energy fluctuations from the lead alien vessel," Iaro 'Inzaunumee, the officer at the tactical station, exclaimed. Even as the tactical officer spoke, the lead alien ship suddenly fired a blanket of glowing green objects from several of its forward cannons.

As the crew watched, the green objects hit the _Wondrous Illumination's_ energy shields and stopped dead. They did not detonate, they simply stayed put.

"What is going on? What is happening to them?!" 'Ovarumee raised his voice, on edge with apprehension.

"Fleet Master…this cannot be happening…" 'Inzaunumee murmured, "The _Illumination's_ shields have been disabled!"

"Send in the other two ships, _now_!" 'Ovarumee shouted, wasting no time.

'Reosee relayed the orders. The _Glorious Ascendance_ and the _Supremacy_ broke out of the line and advanced hurriedly towards the imperiled frigate.

The nose cannons of the three alien vessels glowed white as they warmed up before they opened fire, sending their beams of orange energy searing into the frigate's hull. The bolts lanced into the armor, tearing huge gashes in the frigate's hull. The _Wondrous Illumination_ listed and began to spin out of control, atmosphere leaking out of the tears in its hull.

Anger ripped through 'Ovarumee's hearts like a wildfire through a dry forest as he watched his ship finally explode in a brilliant display of flames, which vanished as quickly as they appeared, smothered by the vacuum of space.

The bridge crew bowed their heads for several seconds in respect for their fallen brothers before returning to their duties.

"I am detecting signatures from the wreckage…" 'Inzaunumee called out, "Lifepods, Fleet Master; there are survivors! Not many, but still…a handful is better than none."

"'Reosee, contact the _Pensive Contemplation_, have them pick up the lifepods," 'Ovarumee ordered.

As the communications officer relayed the commands, the _Glorious Ascendance_ and the _Supremacy_, the two cruisers who had attempted to come to the destroyed frigate's rescue, opened fire on the alien vessels. Pulse lasers painted the forward hulls of the golden alien ships, melting away armor and causing huge amounts of destruction to their interiors. The two cruisers then fired their forward energy projectors, the powerful concentrated energy beams which the Covenant had utilized during the war to glass Human planets, at the trio of alien vessels. The two purplish-white particle beams leaped from the energy projectors and slammed into the two alien vessels on both sides, sparing the one in the center.

The two ships were gutted stem to stern, detonating and drifting away. The two cruisers continued on their course and drowned the third alien ship in a storm of plasmafire from the turrets and plasma torpedoes, ripping into its hull and destroying much of its structure. However, when the two cruisers finished the broadside, the alien ship was somehow still operational, albeit barely.

"Finish them," 'Ovarumee ordered, not bothering to hide the anger in his voice.

Nyre 'Rellakee, the Sangheili operating the weapons control console, complied, firing the _Divine Radiance's_ forward energy projector. Because the alien vessel was farther away from the assault carrier, the energy projector's particle beam was more concentrated and thinner, allowing it to travel much further. It cut straight through the remains of the alien ship and obliterated it with one massive stroke.

The two cruisers both made abrupt turns and returned to the rest of the Fleet to avoid becoming surrounded by the advancing alien fleet.

"Fleet Master," the voice of Ship Master 'Serevee, commander of the _Supremacy_, rang out directly into the bridge via the e-band of the BattleNet, "They appear to have similar energy projectors to our own, although theirs seem to be considerably weaker," the Ship Master informed 'Ovarumee, "They also do not appear to have energy shields, although their armor is strong…much stronger than our own."

"Thank you, Ship Master," 'Ovarumee responded, about to kill the channel when a hologram of Zolan 'Yeromee appeared over the holo-pad in the centre of the bridge.

"Fleet Master 'Ovarumee," the Supreme Commander said, addressing the zealot, "Take your Battlegroup and ascend to a higher plane. Rain fire upon the mongrels from above while the other two battlegroups assail them from the front."

"Yes, Supreme Commander," 'Ovarumee saluted his superior as the hologram flickered and vanished. He ordered 'Kirrahee to follow up on the Supreme Commander's orders and take the assault carrier upwards, above the field of battle.

'Reosee, in contact with the thirty-odd other cruisers and frigates in the Fleet, directed them to follow. "Have them take an arrowhead formation around us," 'Ovarumee told his communications officer, "We will be at the centre. Tell them to hold their fire until I give the command."

The _Divine Radiance_ ascended through space, the Battlegroup it commanded behind it, until it reached a satisfactory height. The other cruisers and frigates formed a wedge around and behind the assault carrier as instructed and spread out, ready to open fire.

The other two Fleet Masters in the Fleet took their battlegroups in a wide arc from both directions and advanced on the alien formation in a pincer maneuver. The _Resplendent Rapture_ advanced in a straight line, single-handedly assaulting the aliens' front line.

Blinding flashes and explosions were heard as the two Fleets engaged each other, firing their weapons and attempting to evade their enemies'.

"Fleet Master! Twelve alien ships have detached from the main formation and are moving to intercept us!" 'Inzaunumee exclaimed, closely monitoring the data his console was showing him.

Sure enough, a dozen of the conical golden vessels had risen up to 'Ovarumee's battlegroup's level and were preparing to fire.

In that moment, 'Ovarumee understood the Supreme Commander's reasoning. Had 'Ovarumee been able to bombard the alien Fleet from above, it would have been a bonus, but his real aim was to have the Fleet Master draw a portion of the aliens away, weakening their main force.

"Prime forward torpedo launchers. Plot appropriate solutions and prepare to fire," 'Ovarumee ordered.

As the arrowhead of Sangheili cruisers and frigates advanced towards the alien ships, a hail of glowing green projectiles belched out of the lead alien vessels. They were the same energy shield-draining projectiles which had taken down the _Wondrous Illumination_. If they made contact with the shields, the assault carrier would be helpless.

"Lasers!" 'Arrolee barked.

'Rellakee was already inputting the commands into his console, targeting the oncoming projectiles. "Done," he confirmed.

As the glowing green projectiles came close to the _Divine Radiance_, they were all suddenly destroyed, taken out by super-accurate bursts from the assault carrier's point defense lasers, lasers which had been utilized during the war to take out individual Human missiles. The small, powerful red beams tore into the cloud of projectiles, eating them all up before they could reach the energy shields.

Similar displays were seen all down the rest of the formation as the other Sangheili vessels took out any rogues with their own lasers.

"Fire," 'Ovarumee ordered quietly.

'Rellakee did not need to be told twice. He had already plotted a firing solution for the lead alien vessel beforehand. All he needed to do now was fire the torpedoes, which he did immediately.

Four crackling blue bolts of plasma issued from the torpedo launchers and sailed across the diminishing no-man's-land, searing into the lead alien vessel, heavily damaging it. An energy projector beam from another cruiser lanced into the damaged ship from the side, destroying it.

The frigates, which did not possess energy projectors, fired all of their torpedo launchers at the oncoming alien vessels, effectively weakening them so that a particle beam from one of the cruisers' energy projectors could finish it off. By the time the alien ships reached the Sangheili formation, only five remained. The cruisers and frigates behind the arrowhead formation's front line all grouped up and, together, they surrounded the alien ships and gutted them, taking only minor damage in the process.

Two more frigates had had their shields drained and been damaged extensively, but they would be able to be easily repaired.

With the quarter of the alien fleet which had been diverted to combat 'Ovarumee's Battlegroup now reduced to molten slag, 'Ovarumee and his Ship Masters directed their vessels' fire down into the main battle, ripping already-damaged alien ships to pieces.

The _Resplendent Rapture_ had managed to take on and single-handedly destroy six of the enemy ships while taking only superficial damage.

After 'Ovarumee's ships rejoined the fight, the remnants of the alien fleet managed to regroup. There were only nine of them left, and of those nine only five had their engines intact. Those five veered off away from the rest and vanished into the slipstream with bright purple flashes, heading back to wherever they came from.

The _Resplendent Rapture_ advanced up through the rest of the Fleet and drew up alongside the disabled alien ships. Two energy projector beams lanced out of the supercarrier's forward projectors, obliterating two of the alien vessels. A third was dispatched by a particle beam from the _Reverent Obligation_, one of the other two assault carriers in the Fleet.

The fourth was spared, however, and captured in the _Resplendent Rapture's_ tractor beam, immobilizing it. The ship's systems must have also been irreparably damaged, as it had not yet self-destructed.

"What is the Supreme Commander doing? Why is he sparing that ship?" 'Kirrahee voiced what was on everyone's mind.

"Why, indeed," 'Ovarumee murmured, "I believe he intends to board it."

Sure enough, a Sangheili cruiser was drawing up alongside the disabled alien ship and holding its position, obviously preparing to launch a team of warriors to board the ship. Capturing one of these aliens and learning more of their culture and technology could prove integral in the future.

'Ovarumee frowned, noticing that the cruiser was from his own Battlegroup. "What ship is that?"

'Inzaunumee checked his console briefly, accessing the cruiser's records. "It is the _Forethought_, Fleet Master, one of ours."

'Ovarumee's mandibles started to click in agitation with this new knowledge. "Take us in closer. If the operation goes awry, I want to be able to render all assistance possible."

The _Forethought_ was the ship commanded by Ship Master Imos 'Ovarumee, the Fleet Master's younger brother.


	17. Chapter 16: When Plans Go Awry

Chapter Sixteen: When Plans Go Awry

**0730 Units, 71****st**** Day of the Sun's Embrace, Twelfth Cycle (1****st**** Age of Restoration) \  
Asgard, Delta Aridon System**

_**Forethought**_**, Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression**

Special Operations Commander K'ran 'Ainumee was the last to climb aboard the prepped phantom dropship in the hangar bay of the _Forethought_, allowing the members of his strike team to climb aboard before him. The phantom was hovering in the air, ready to leave at a moment's notice. A ghost was fastened to the dropship's underbelly and its grav-lift was active, lifting the Spec Ops Sangheili up into the main hold.

The assault force was comprised of twenty special operations Sangheili, all in their customary black armor. They were assembled in the phantom's main hold, awaiting the launch.

'Ainumee made his way through his men and ducked into the cockpit, giving the pilot a nod. He then activated the ship's communications array, connecting with the _Forethought's_ bridge. "Ship Master, this is Strike Team, requesting permission to depart from the ship."

There was a pause on the other end, and then a reply. "Permission granted, Strike Team," the voice of Imos 'Ovarumee, the Ship Master of the _Forethought_, issued from the BattleNet, "Your mission is to capture the enemy vessel's databanks, as well as a living specimen, if at all possible. May the Gods fight alongside you."

'Ainumee killed the channel and straightened up, giving the pilot another nod.

The Sangheili at the phantom's controls fired up the engines and maneuvered the dropship through the hangar bay towards one of the open docking ports. 'Ainumee watched as the pilot slid the phantom cleanly between two hovering seraph fighters and over another grounded phantom, sailing right through the open docking port The force fields preventing atmosphere from venting out the docking port flared into visibility briefly as the phantom slipped through, but vanished again just as quickly.

Now free of the cruiser, 'Ainumee gazed through the cockpit window at the alien vessel. It was hovering next to the _Forethought_, held motionless by the _Resplendent Rapture's_ tractor beam. It was heavily damaged, but the damage seemed to be only on the hull. The interior of the ship was most likely all intact. One of the Fleet's assault carriers hovered close by along with several more cruisers. The rest of the Fleet had congregated over Asgard, the colony world, most likely coordinating with its population.

The phantom traversed the distance between the _Forethought_ and the alien vessel in five minutes. As the dropship drew up level with the alien vessel, the pilot deftly maneuvered the phantom into one of the gashes in its hull.

As the phantom drew inside the alien ship's hull, the dropship rocked suddenly and a wall of green was briefly visible, one stretching from one end of the gash to the other.

"It seems they have force field technology as well," the pilot noted, "Gave us a little shock, but no damage."

"Is there breathable atmosphere in here?" 'Ainumee asked the pilot. It paid to be certain.

"Affirmative," the pilot replied, "According to the ship's sensors, the atmosphere in this ship is akin to our own."

'Ainumee nodded, turning around and heading back into the main hold. "Very good. Open the hold and hold this position until I issue further orders."

As the Spec Ops Commander rejoined his men in the main hold, the two side openings slid open, as did the deployment hole in the floor. While normally they could have taken the grav-lift down to the floor, the way was blocked by the ghost hanging underneath the phantom's underbelly. All of the Spec Ops Sangheili chose instead to jump out the side openings. The phantom was close enough to the floor of the hangar bay for that.

Now on the ground, 'Ainumee organized his team and set off across the hangar towards the open portal leading to the rest of the alien vessel. The moment they stepped through, 'Ainumee sensed that these aliens were by no means 'normal', if such an adjective could be applied to _any_ alien race.

The team was in a corridor, there was no doubt about that, but the corridor was huge; roughly forty feet across and fifty feet tall, much larger than a customary walkspace. The doorways were just as large, so the corridors were definitely not flukes.

"These aliens have claustrophobia or something?" one of the Spec Ops Sangheili murmured as the team made their way down the corridor in the presumed direction of the vessel's bridge.

'Ainumee silenced the loose-lipped Sangheili with a low growl. It wouldn't do to have any surviving aliens to be alerted to his team's presence unless he was the one shooting.

As the strike team reached a junction in the corridors, a loud, low moaning sound was heard.

'Ainumee slammed his fist into the air and the team hunkered down along the wall of the first corridor, making themselves scarce. The Special Ops Commander pointed at two of his warriors with both of his fingers and gestured for them to take point.

The two indicated Spec Ops Sangheili stood up and, silent as memories, stole around the corner and down the next corridor. The moaning sound came again from further on down the corridor, followed by what sounded like a voice. It was deep and loud, like the moaning, but it was obviously conversing in some form of language.

The two advancing Sangheili activated their armor's active camouflage. They quickly faded from view as the active camo bent the light around them, rendering them invisible.

"Hostiles sighted," one of the two Sangheili whispered, "By the Gods, they are-"

"Give me a count," 'Ainumee ordered.

"Three. One heavily wounded, but-"

"Hold your position; we are moving up. Maintain radio silence," 'Ainumee killed the channel and hit his active camo, edging out into the corridor. The rest of the strike team followed suit, quietly advancing down the hallway until they linked up with their two comrades at the other end.

The corridors were huge; the alien vessel was slightly smaller than the _Forethought_, a CCS-Class Battlecruiser, but they had to have traversed at least a third of the length of the alien vessel already. All that length without coming across a single alien crewman was unnerving; they must all have been incapacitated by the earlier naval battle which had ravaged their ship.

_Or perhaps they are simply waiting_... 'Ainumee shook his head to clear it and refocused, concentrating on the mission.

The rest of the team of Spec Ops Sangheili gathered at the next junction. 'Ainumee peeked around the corner. The corridor seemed to lead into some sort of medical bay. Three aliens were inside. Two of them were bent over the third, who was writhing in agony on one of the operating tables. The wounded alien had burns all over its body as well as a sizeable shard of still-glowing armor embedded in its gut.

'Ainumee's breath was taken away and his mandibles fell slack, partly in shock and partly in awe of the creatures in the medical room. They appeared reptilian; greenish scaly skin, elongated lizard-like heads and faces, large eyes with vertical slits for pupils. They spoke in a gravelly dialect comprising of hissing words which sounded like they had been sent through a meat-grinder.

The Sangheili did not yet have any data on these aliens, so their translators could not pick up what they were saying, although based on what was happening and what they were doing it was easy to guess.

Oh, and they were easily twenty feet tall, standing as high as most normal single-story houses. They weren't all height, though, they were well-built, heavily muscles, clad in reddish-brown body armor.

"I think capturing one of these aliens just got slightly more complicated," one of the Spec Ops muttered. The others murmured in agreement, but otherwise remained silent.

By now, the Spec Ops team had figured out a rough outline of the alien vessel's interior. There were no lifts or even stairwells, so it stood to reason that there was only a single deck, albeit one with extremely large corridors and rooms, obviously built to such a size to accommodate the giant aliens.

Judging by the layout and shape of the vessel, the way to the bridge was through the medical bay. The Sangheili thought that was strange, but they were past the point of questioning it.

"Move up," 'Ainumee whispered.

That turned out to be the Spec Ops team's first mistake.

The aliens on board the ship knew that the only logical reason they hadn't been destroyed along with the rest of their fellows was that they were going to be boarded. As such, their leader had ordered precautions to be taken, and one of those precautions included rigging the medical bay with simple motion sensors.

Alarms went off the moment 'Ainumee set foot into the medical bay.

The two aliens tending to their comrade dove away from the operating table over to one of the counters which had their weapons lying on it. The snarling reptilian aliens hefted their weapons, which looked like beam rifles the size of a Human light anti-aircraft gun complete with wickedly sharp blades fixed on the barrels like bayonets.

'Ainumee dove out of the doorway with milliseconds to spare before a hail of glowing red laser-like projectiles sliced through the air where he had just previously stood. "Fall back to the junction!" the Special Operations Commander shouted, not bothering to keep his voice down. They had been compromised; stealth was no longer an issue. "'Imaree, contact Ship Master 'Ovarumee, have him send in our backup!" 'Ainumee shouted to one of his subordinates as the strike team sprinted back down the corridor towards the junction where they would make their first stand. "Tell them to bring a Spectre!"

As 'Imaree radioed in for help, the two aliens lumbered out of the doorway and began to jog forward towards the strike team, which had reached the junction. Jogging for the aliens was akin to sprinting for a Sangheili, so it wasn't as If they had all the time in the world to return fire.

All twenty members of the Spec Ops team flickered into visibility as they opened fire with their plasma rifles and carbines, disabling their active camo. The torrent of plasmafire tore into the aliens, wreaking havoc with their armor and giving them nasty-looking burns all over their bodies, but it did absolutely nothing to slow them down.

"By the Gods, they will not die!" one of the Spec Ops thundered, proclaiming the ineffectiveness of their weapons.

The first alien reached them with an almighty leap and knocked two of 'Ainumee's Sangheili to the ground. The first was able to scramble back up and twist out of the way, but the second one was not so fortunate. The dying Sangheili let out an agonized roar as the reptilian alien drove its bayonet right through his armor and chest, twisting it violently for the maximum effect.

'Ainumee blinked twice, nearly frozen with shock as the second alien joined its compatriot and started to slaughter his men. Three more Sangheili were brutally struck down before they could react. They were all fatally wounded; even a trained Healer would not be able to do anything for them.

'Ainumee raised his own carbine and fired four times, putting his downed brothers out of their misery. He fought the urge to bow his head in silence to honor their passing; he would save the mourning for _after_ the ordeal, otherwise it would be another Sangheili bowing his head for _him_.

The rest of the Spec Ops weaved in, out, and around the two massive aliens, dodging their blows and ducking their attacks. It was almost a macabre dance, emphasized by the flashes and explosions of the aliens' weapons.

The stalemate went on for another minute until 'Ainumee, observing the labored movements of one of the aliens, decided to act. The second alien had been wounded a lot more than the first, and it was beginning to show. Its movements were slower, sloppier than they had been before.

The Special Operations Commander timed his leap precisely, recalling his training days on the fiery volcanic world of Orthigal when he was ordered to leap from one stone pillar to the next over a lake of molten lava. Needless to say, he obviously hadn't washed out.

The moment the wounded alien had its back turned, occupied with one of the other Spec Ops, 'Ainumee struck. He broke into a full sprint, leaping first onto one of the crates stacked up against the wall, and then onto the alien's upper back. He hooked his right arm around the alien's neck and, with his left, grasped the metal hilt of his prized weapon dangling on his belt and activated it. The energy sword's glowing white twin blades sprang into existence at the Sangheili's touch, humming with deadly energy.

'Ainumee raised his energy sword and plunged it into the back of the alien's head. It dropped dead instantly, not even a scream or grunt from the creature.

The other alien had managed to wound another of the Spec Ops during the last engagement. As it raised its bayonet, about to finish the downed warrior off, a small, sharp purple particle beam seared through the air and went straight through the alien's eye. It, too, fell over onto the ground without a sound.

Ajai 'Hamanee, the team's sniper, lowered his beam rifle, his arms still shaking slightly from the near-miss which he had just prevented. He was younger than most other Sangheili in the military; 'Ainumee believed that this was his first mission with Special Operations. What a way to start out.

Just as one of the other Sangheili slung the wounded warrior over his shoulder, there was a roaring exclamation from the other end of the hallway. A group of nine more aliens of the same species as the two ones lying dead on the floor had emerged from the medical room, taking in the sight of their two dead comrades and the intruders standing over their corpses.

With roars, they all charged down the corridor as a pack, howling for blood.

Sangheili are a very proud race, preferring to stand and die before retreating. 'Ainumee was one of the shining examples of the Sangheili military at its best, and yet he would never feel an inkling of shame for ordering his team to get the hell away from those bloodthirsty aliens.

"Get back to the phantom!" 'Ainumee shouted, gesturing back the way they had come. He brought up the rear, making sure all of his men were ahead of him.

The strike team retreated all the way back down the corridor and then the next one, making their way back to the hangar. The aliens were too fast, though; their enormous legs carrying them down the halls like barreling freight trains. 'Ainumee knew that they wouldn't reach the hangar before these marauding creatures caught up.

They turned the last corner, running backwards now. If they were going to die, they were going to die facing their enemy, not cowering from it.

The lead alien executed a leap like its deceased comrade and landed right in front of 'Ainumee. It raised its weapon and brought the bayonet stabbing down towards the Special Operations Commander. 'Ainumee raised his energy sword in defense and whipped it around, cleanly severing the bayonet from the alien's weapon in a single, powerful stroke. If only there were a zealot here, one of the Fleet Masters; an expert swordsman like them would have made mincemeat of half the alien pack already.

The alien growled, baring its teeth, its lizard-like face contorting in anger as its most prized weapon was mutilated. It aimed the weapon itself at 'Ainumee…but that's as far as it got.

All at once, a stream of plasmafire coming from somewhere behind the Special Operations Commander tore into the alien. This plasma was brighter, more powerful than that of the plasma rifles. The alien went down, surprise etched all over its face.

'Ainumee risked a look backwards and caught a glimpse of the pilot of the phantom which had transported his team onto this ship at the controls of the ghost which the phantom had been carrying. The ghost's twin forward plasma cannons were ablaze, spitting their deadly contents at the dying alien.

It was not enough to stop the oncoming pack, but it was enough to slow them down so that the strike team could reach the hangar bay, covered by the heavy fire from the ghost.

Back in the ruins of the hangar bay, the strike team sprinted back just in time to see a second phantom enter through the breach which their own phantom had come in through. It was bearing the requested spectre; an old Covenant vehicle which was similar to the brute prowler, only much more refined, including a better paint job.

The spectre detached itself from the phantom and fell to the ground, but its anti-gravity generators set into its underbelly prevented it from actually hitting the floor. A squad of blue-armored Sangheili Minors, led by a red-armored Major, came down through the grav-lift. Several of them, including the major, were armed with fuel-rod cannons.

As the aliens burst into the hangar, the new arrivals looked just as shocked as the spec ops team had been when they had gotten their first glimpse, but they quickly overcame it and took up defensive positions. The phantom's turret warmed up and began to fire, but the aliens were able to dodge a good amount of the slower-moving plasma projectiles.

The three Sangheili wielding the fuel-rod cannons, however, did not miss. Even with a fuel-rod cannon, one of the heaviest weapons in the Sangheili arsenal, it took four shots to fully incapacitate one of the aliens. That was nearly a full load for one of those weapons.

Three aliens went down in the first barrage, then later a fourth succumbed to the phantom's plasma turret. Two of the aliens managed to kill two of the Sangheili minors and wound several more before the spectre ran one of them over and took out the second with its plasma cannon.

The remaining two aliens retreated back into the corridor, keeping up their fire until they vanished around the corner. The brief battle was over as quickly as it had started, each side exacting almost equal amounts of casualties on the other.

The rest of the Sangheili regrouped, bowing their heads in silence for their fallen brothers.

"What in the name of the Gods _were_ those monstrosities?" the major panted, helping one of his wounded warriors back into the phantom for evac.

"Obviously not friendly," was all 'Ainumee could give in response. Truth be told, after the naval battle, 'Ainumee had believed that these mysterious aliens were actually weaker than they seemed. Well, these past few events just ripped that myth to shreds. "Get your wounded and your dead onto one of the phantoms and come with us. I lost four of my men just minutes ago, and I want you and your team to bring their bodies back as well. Then take everything and return to the _Forethought_. We shall deal with the survivors…I think that capturing them alive is out of the question now."

The major nodded in reply and issued orders to his minors, who formed up and followed the Spec Ops strike team back into the corridors. When they reached the last junction before the medical room, where 'Ainumee and his team had fought the first two aliens, the minors gathered up the bodies of the four fallen Spec Ops Sangheili who had been killed and set off back towards the hangar bay, all of them secretly glad to be returning to familiar territory. The major went with them, but he gave one of 'Ainumee's warriors his fuel-rod cannon before leaving. "You'll need it," he said.

The Spec Ops team didn't bother to activate their camo now that their presence was known. They headed down the corridor to the medical bay and ducked inside. The wounded alien was still thrashing in agony on the operating table, bluish blood flowing freely onto the floor from its massive wound.

'Ainumee activated his energy sword and put it out of its misery.

The strike team continued through the medical room to the corridor on the other side, which led towards the front of the ship. They encountered nothing until, after scouting through several more corridors, they came to the end of the last hall. It opened up into a huge circular room with several huge seats at the consoles lining its wall, along with a large viewscreen which had a clear view of the _Forethought_ and the planet of Asgard behind it.

A considerably smaller chair was facing that viewscreen, away from the strike team, and the two surviving aliens were conversing with someone in that chair. Seeing the familiar arrivals, they snarled once more and leaped past the small chair in the center of the room, heading for the Spec Ops warriors.

As one, the sixteen black-armored Sangheili activated their active camouflage and went invisible, leaping out of the way of the charging aliens. The reptilian creatures looked visibly confused as their enemies vanished before their eyes. They conversed with each other in rapid-fire hissy-growl speak and began to swing around wildly and fire into random places.

The cloaked Sangheili were careful to avoid the blows. If they were even brushed, the active camo would fail, destroying their one advantage.

Luckily, 'Ainumee's sword was already activated before he turned the camo on. This active camo was newer than previous models; it was able to mask the glow of an energy sword as well, rather than have it giving his position away like a huge neon-green sign saying _**Eat me!**_

He waited once more for the alien to turn its back before, just like the last time, he leaped onto its back with an almighty running jump, a testament to the strength of a Sangheili. He plunged his sword into the back of the alien's head. It collapsed to the ground, brain matter seeping out of its ears.

As soon as 'Ainumee's camouflage failed, the second alien pointed its weapon at the Special Operations Commander, but Fate was not on its side. The familiar _voom_ sound of a firing fuel-rod cannon split the air and five crackling green bolts slammed into the second alien's chest, knocking it flat onto its back. Miraculously, it had survived the blasts, but 'Ainumee remedied that with his sword.

"Show yourself," 'Ainumee called out the chair in the centre of the room, which could only be the bridge. He had not expected any response, so he was surprised when the chair swiveled around to face him. He was even more surprised to find that the alien sitting in the chair looked nothing like its comrades. It had pale, white skin with a bluish-greenish tinge and a humanoid body-structure, although it was slightly taller and thinner than average Humans. Its head was slightly elongated, like an upside-down teardrop, and it had large blue eyes which took up nearly a third of its face. It had a thin, hard line for a mouth and two flaring nostrils for a nose.

"This is not the end," the new alien spoke in fluent Sangheilian to the bewilderment of the Spec Ops Sangheili, "There are more of us, much more…this war ended before it even began…you, your families, your race, and your filthy Human allies shall all-"

"I think we've heard quite enough, thank you very much. Tag him," 'Ainumee ordered 'Hamanee.

The sniper drew out a tranquilizer gun and dropped the alien with a single dart, cutting him off mid-speech.

"Contact the _Forethought_," the Special Operations Commander ordered 'Imaree as he directed two of his warriors to pick up the unconscious alien, "Tell Ship Master 'Ovarumee that we have found something that just might interest the High Council."


	18. Chapter 17: Indoctrination

Chapter Seventeen: Indoctrination

**2000 Hours, September 3, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region**

"Sir, he's lost consciousness again," the technician operating the master override panel said.

Liam Cathal O'Riley, Deputy Director of the Shade Branch of Special Operations, let out a weary sigh. He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a small cloth, wiping off his forehead. He walked up to the tinted one-way mirror which gazed down into the Chamber, the room in which the more questionable methods of indoctrination took place.

Director O'Riley was in the observation room, the room adjacent to and above the Chamber. The observation room was the room where the one supervising the indoctrination, in this case O'Riley, would monitor the proceedings. It was a small room with a master override console, which had direct command over the Chamber's systems. The override console could stop the indoctrination if it went too far, though it was seldom used for purposes such as that. There was a one-way mirror window set into the wall of the observation room which had a birds-eye view of the Chamber. The supervisor could watch through that window to monitor the indoctrination. From the Chamber, it looked like a normal mirror.

O'Riley gazed through the window into the Chamber. The Inquisitor of the Cruciamentum, a man named Muëllen, was standing over the metal table in the middle of the room, his finger pressing down on the remote he was holding. He was a taller man with graying hair and hawk-like features. He was dressed in casual wear, sporting black pants, a loose-necked maroon shirt, and a black vest. He wore a pair of reflective silver sunglasses which obscured his eyes, even though he did not need them.

The table was still crackling, even shooting off a blue spark or two as the electrical current activated by the Inquisitor and generated by the Chamber's systems flowed through it and its occupant.

Strapped down and secured to the table by metal bands was the familiar form of Robin Ambrose, and sure enough, he was not moving; the current was obviously too much.

"Shut it off," O'Riley ordered the technician.

The technician looked unsure. "I don't think Inquisitor Muëllen will-"

"I do not care what the Inquisitor thinks; the boy is no good to the Magistarium as a corpse, Inquisitor Muëllen seems to be forgetting that. Stop the current."

The cowed technician obeyed and input the appropriate commands into the override console. As O'Riley watched, the crackling stopped and the electricity dispersed, leaving the table just a normal metal slab once more.

The Inquisitor drew a frustrated breath as he was overridden, but knew better than to question the man observing him. Deputy Director O'Riley had the ability to make even an Inquisitor or Paladin disappear from the face of the earth if he so chose, so Inquisitor Muëllen backed down. "Orders, Deputy Director?" he grunted.

O'Riley pulled over the microphone which connected him with the Chamber and switched it on. "This is the boy's third session of indoctrination since the thirtieth of August, four days ago. This is the first time I have supervised one of your processing sessions, and based upon what I have witnessed so far, I do not believe that we are making significant progress in…_persuading_ him to accept our values. Do you disagree?"

The Inquisitor shrugged. "Indoctrination results vary from subject to subject; no two are the same. For some it takes as little as a day or two, for others it takes months. It all depends on the subject's mental resolve. A weak-minded child could be compared to a wooden barrier, a strong-willed one to a titanium wall, and us to a cannon. With enough persistence, the cannon _will_ break through the titanium barrier, but it will take much longer than it would to break the wooden one. Robin Ambrose is a titanium barrier. That is his nature. That is something we cannot change. It will take time."

O'Riley could not help but slightly admire the Inquisitor's calm persona. Even when in a patch of hot water, the Magisterial official managed to casually steer his way out of it with cold, efficient logic.

Despite the tensions which often arose between the two of them, the Inquisitor personally approved of the Deputy Director of the Shade Branch. Unlike so many other Magisterial officials, the Deputy Director was a level-headed, logical individual as opposed to the irrational, overzealous cretins who the High Chancellor usually employed. Perhaps that personality came with being a part of Special Operations.

"I realize that," O'Riley sighed, massaging his temples. The Deputy Director and the Inquisitor had been working on the Ambrose child non-stop since the night before. Dark circles had long-since appeared under O'Riley's bloodshot eyes as sleep deprivation began to take its toll. "Believe me, I realize that. The problem is that the Magistrate and the High Chancellor do not. They are impatient. They want results, and they want them soon."

"I will not relent," the Inquisitor assured O'Riley, "But the progress is not up to me. The mind is not a city or a planet; it is impossible to conquer it unless _it_ surrenders. In a sense, the child is the one in control. The key is making sure that he never knows it."

"Your reasons are sound," O'Riley agreed, "But when you will be giving report of your failure to meet the timetable to the Magistrate, they shall fall on deaf ears. Redouble your efforts."

"Yes, Deputy Director," Inquisitor Muëllen gave the window a respectful nod. In truth, the Inquisitor would simply continue his work normally, but nevertheless, it was still a good move to humor O'Riley at this stage. He crossed over to one of the counters situated in the back of the room and opened a drawer, drawing out a syringe and a large glass container of a bright red solution.

"Tell me," O'Riley continued, "Who is the other boy in Ambrose's cell? What is his crime?"

As Inquisitor Muëllen filled the syringe with the red fluid, he recalled the ragged youth with black hair and blue eyes who shared a cell with Robin Ambrose. "He's a nobody," the Inquisitor replied, "An orphan. No documentation, no identification, nothing. He calls himself 'Blaze', but that is not his real name, if he _has_ a real name. And even that name would not be a legitimate one; he has no birth certificate. He is a nobody. He was captured during an attack on the home of a Magisterial official in the Jethro Region."

"He's an Illuminati?" O'Riley asked, surprised. The Deputy Director had already formulated his suspicions about that particular boy being involved with the faction of separatists, but he was still nonetheless surprised to hear it confirmed. After all, it was unusual to see a captured rebel, even a young one, still alive after half a month.

Muëllen nodded, crossing back over to the table where Robin lay. He lifted the syringe up to the light and squirted out a tiny bit of the liquid to make sure it was functioning properly. "Yes," the Inquisitor nodded. He lifted the left-hand sleeve up to Robin's shoulder and cleanly slid the needle into the boy's upper arm, releasing its contents into his bloodstream. "Yes, he is. We are not indoctrinating him, however, nor are we executing him. We are simply waiting for the next monthly shuttle to Archon Island. The military scientists there are always looking for healthy individuals to experiment on…I'm sure a thirteen-year-old boy in prime condition will give them quite a few ideas."

O'Riley nodded to himself, a plan beginning to form in his mind. He had been wondering how he was going to go about taking down the Illuminati during his time at the Cruciamentum, and now he just might have found a way.

Invigorated by the serum, Robin Ambrose stirred with a quiet moan. His eyes cracked open and he tried to move, forgetting where he was. He picked his head up, took in the room, the Inquisitor, his bonds. He fell back onto the table, memories of the past day rushing back to him.

"Hit the lights," O'Riley mumbled to the technician.

"Say again, sir?"

O'Riley shook himself awake, realizing that he had been nodding off. "The lights, Mr. Asher."

The technician nodded and manipulated the controls. The lights in the Chamber all winked out, save for a single blinding white light which shined right into the boy's face.

"Ah, welcome back, my young friend," Inquisitor Muëller chuckled, "We nearly lost you there for a minute. Shall we resume?" the Inquisitor waited before continuing, receiving no reply. "I shall take your silence as a 'yes'. Now, I will again offer you a choice, just like I did before you decided to take a nap. You can be moved to a much more comfortable cell. You can be fed, bathed, given sustenance, eventually set free. Or…or you can return to your cell. You can stay hungry until you waste away. At that point, we will break you simply because there will be nothing left to offer resistance. You will be ours anyway. Is that what you want?" Muëller posed the question to Robin, making conversation to the boy like a schoolmaster would to an unruly student, "Do you really want to go like that? Broken and beaten…nothing left but dregs of personality and a shell…you will be ended. Is that what you want? Or would you rather take my offer of a better life?"

"Wha..." Robin started to say, but he fell into a coughing fit, obscuring the rest of his words.

"Say again, dear boy, I could not catch that," Muëller leaned in close to hear better.

"What…must I do?"

Muëller smiled to himself. He knew that he wasn't close to breaking the boy yet, but he was still making progress. The light at the end of the tunnel had just gotten a little brighter. "Oh…nothing, really…" the Inquisitor strolled around the side of the table so that he was in the light, "All you have to do is tell me…what two plus two equals. Answer that correctly, and you will be given everything I have promised."

"Four," Robin replied without hesitation.

Muëller's hand gripped the remote and he pressed one of the buttons.

Robin cried out as the electrical current surged through him once more, arching his back until he feared it would snap like a brittle twig. Then it was over, the current ceasing.

"That is incorrect; the answer is _five_," Muëller chastised the boy, his finger hovering over the remote. "I will give you another chance to escape from this Hell. You can end it all right here, right now. What is two plus two?" the Inquisitor asked in a sharper tone.

Robin thought about the question, examining every possible meaning, but he could not come up with any relation between two-plus-two and five. There was none. "I don't get it…I was right…two plus two equals four-"

The electrical surge was back before he could say anything more, lancing into his body like miniature lightning bolts.

The Inquisitor shut off the current and leaned over the panting boy. "What does two plus two equal!" he shouted, yelling in Robin's face, all pretense of friendliness gone. "Tell me what it equals, and answer correctly! What is two plus two?!"

"Four!!" Robin screamed, bracing for the electric surge even before it came.

The Inquisitor kept his finger on the button for a full minute. Even when O'Riley intervened, he didn't seem like he was going to relent.

"That is enough, Inquisitor," Deputy Director O'Riley ordered through the microphone, "I think we have all had enough for one day. Have the Paladins take the boy back to his cell, and get yourself some rest. We cannot afford to be making misjudgments because of our fatigue."

O'Riley didn't hang around to listen to Muëller's protests. He stood up and trudged out of the room, heading towards his quarters where he intended to sleep until the end of time. He nodded to a pair of Magisterial Guardsmen, the common soldiers of the Magistarium, who were walking down the same hallway. They nodded back, stepping aside to let him pass.

The Deputy Director reached his quarters on the other side of the Cruciamentum and closed the door behind him. He trudged straight into the bathroom and sat in front of the mirror, studying himself with a mixture of disgust and hatred. He sat alone in silence for several minutes before he started to think about his plans for the Illuminati.

He stood up and changed into more comfortable sleepwear before sitting down at his desk and pulling out his datapad. He accessed the Cruciamentum's databanks and got to work, rewriting the guardsmen's duty roster for the graveyard shift.

He then activated the desk's console and started to put in a call to Master Gunnery Sergeant Lorring, the quartermaster of Shade Branch HQ in the Tethys Region who O'Riley had a good relationship with.

The screen flickered as the call went through, and then it showed the face of a balding, slightly overweight man with a large garage full of disassembled vehicles in the background. "Liam?" the quartermaster squinted into the screen, getting a better look at his caller and grinning with instant recognition, "Liam O'Riley, is that you? Well hey, I heard about your promotion; you should be proud as hell for yourself! What can I do for you, _Deputy Director_?"

O'Riley made sure that the channel was secure so that it could not be reviewed later on. To do so would be his undoing. He leaned in close to his screen and murmured, "Lorring, I need a favor. Do you still have those old thermite explosives in your storerooms, the ones you were going to get rid of? How fast can you send them to me…"

* * *

Blaze was starting to worry about his cellmate. He had been taken to the Chamber an entire day ago. The thirteen-year-old could not imagine spending twenty-four hours in the Chamber; most of the other prisoners in the Cruciamentum underwent the processing for only a handful of hours at a time, at most.

The locking mechanism of the door clicked as it was opened. One of Paladins, the one who Blaze affectionately called 'Al', stepped inside, Robin Ambrose slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He dropped the boy into the corner and shackled his hands behind his back once more, attaching the figure eight-shaped irons to the short chain which was fixed to the wall. Al then straightened up and quick-stepped his way out of the cell, sealing the door behind him.

"You look like shit," Blaze broke the silence, staring at his cellmate.

Robin said nothing. He let out a quiet chuckle, which turned into full-fledged laughter. "A simple 'welcome back, glad your heart's still able to beat' would've been fine, you know," the younger boy wheezed, pushing himself up into a sitting-up position, resting back against the wall.

"Yeah, I guess you're right…but you _do_ look like shit; I just call it like I see it. And what's so funny?"

"Today's the 3rd of September, right?"

Blaze racked his memory, remembering the day he had been captured and counting up from then to now. "Yeah, why?"

"It's my birthday," Robin sighed, his laughter dying down and vanishing into a melancholy silence. "I turned twelve a little bit ago," he murmured, "And I should be at the Skirmish Paintball forest back in New York with my dad right now…"

"What did they do?" Blaze asked his cellmate. He had never undergone indoctrination personally; he had always been curious how the Magistarium managed to turn dissenters into brainwashed drones.

Robin went into a detailed account of what the Inquisitor had done to him over the past day. "It was subtle stuff he did…I guess it all ties into the whole 'breaking my mind' thing. Then he did something really weird…he offered me good food, a better cell, freedom…"

Blaze cocked an eyebrow, visibly interested. "Really?" he asked, "An Inquisitor offering that? What did you have to do?"

"That's the weird part. He asked me what two plus two was, so I said 'four', you know?" Robin explained, "Then he freakin' _electrocutes_ me again and says that the right answer is 'five'. Every time I answered 'four', he would do the same thing; zap me and tell me that it's 'five', even though-"

"He's pulling a 1984," Blaze interrupted, recalling one of the few things he had learned about indoctrination during his time with the Illuminati.

"A what?"

"A 1984," Blaze repeated. When all he got in response was a blank stare, he settled down and began to clarify. "It's a method of psychological mindfuckery originally introduced in some ancient book written centuries ago. Its title was '1984', hence the name of the tactic. When you say that 'two plus two' equals 'four', you're following your own common sense and reasoning. That is precisely what our glorious Magistarium does not want," the thirteen-year-old explained, "They want you to not only say that two plus two equals 'five', they want you to _believe_ it. Once that happens, you will have abandoned your own common sense. You will have given yourself to them mentally…the rest of the indoctrination will be a breeze for them after that."

"But…but that's crazy!" Robin exclaimed, "How could anyone believe-"

"Every time you use your reasoning and common sense and say that 'two plus two' equals 'four', they will torture you," Blaze said matter-of-factly, "They will put you through enough Hell until you'll be at the point where you'll tell them anything they want…_do_ anything they want. You think the concept is crazy now, but picture yourself after a week, two weeks, a _month_ of constant pain. By then, that small, innocent little '2+2=5' will be looking _really_ friendly. Mark my words, eventually you _will_ break."

"Oh…well, crap…" Robin mumbled dejectedly, slumping back down into his corner.

Blaze's eyes brightened and he sat up, a smile creeping over his face. "But hey, look on the bright side! You'll now get to finally meet my partner, the one who's been the supplier of those tasty sandwiches we've been eating these past few days."

As if on cue, there was an audible clink as a pebble pinged off of the lattice of metal bars covering the cell window which opened up onto street level into the abandoned ghetto.

"Right on time…" Blaze stood up and hobbled over to the window. The chains around his feet prevented him from walking properly, or from moving any further than the window itself.

There was a slight rustling sound from outside as a shadowy form crawled up to the window. It reached up and took off its hood, revealing the face of a young teenage girl around Blaze's age. She had deep brown eyes which lacked Blaze's mischievous glint, instead having the deep, abyssal look of someone who has seen too much in her lifetime. She whipped a strand of blond hair out of her eyes and peered into the cell.

"Jess, I would like to introduce you to Robin," Blaze gestured over to his cellmate. "Robin, Jess."

Jess eyed and sized Robin up from the window. "Thought he'd be taller," she grunted.

Robin stood up and managed to walk about a foot before his chain held him back. "Can you get us out of here?" he posed the question to the girl, a note of desperation beginning to creep into his voice.

Jess rolled her eyes. "If I could get you out of this place, I'd have broken Blaze out weeks ago and we would not be having this conversation."

"_Look_," Robin retorted in a harsh tone which neither Blaze nor Jess thought him capable of, his face turning an angry shade of red, "I didn't ask to be kidnapped from my home and brought to this dump, I didn't ask to become your Magistarium's puppet, and I certainly didn't ask to be such an inconvenience for you and your little rebel club. I just learned that I'm going to be _tortured_ until my mind and free will breaks and shatters, and I don't see _you_ strapped down on the table in the Chamber, so how about you cut me some freakin' slack?!"

"Keep it down!" Blaze hissed, eyeing the door nervously, "If the Paladins or the Guardsmen hear you…"

Jess stared at the red-faced twelve-year-old and cracked a grin. "He's definitely got nads, that'll be good…here, Blaze, I have what you asked for…I just hope you appreciate how _hard_ it was for me to get them," the blond-haired girl reached into her jacket and pulled out a diamond-coated six-inch long hacksaw, newly stolen from one of the hardware stores of Mire City, and a long, thin lockpick. "Whatever you're planning, do it fast; I have _had_ _it_ with this stupid city. And Blaze…Gerald told me that our intel picked up transmissions from this place concerning your fate. You're not going to be executed."

"Well that's good, innit?" Blaze smiled, letting out a small sigh of relief.

"They're sending you to Archon Island when the monthly shuttle arrives. That will be two days from now."

Blaze's expression fell like a deflating soufflé. "Oh…well, that really puts a damper on things…"

"All I'm saying is that you need to hurry the hell up! If you're taken to Archon Island, there's no way we can help you; the place is too heavily defended and too isolated for a rescue operation. You have to get out of here before that shuttle comes, or it's over."

"I'm working on it," Blaze assured her, "Trust me on this one. All I really have to do is cut Robin's irons…once his hands are free, we'll have several options. But we need to saw through the unsawable metal first, so we'll make it or we won't at this point. Keep an eye on this place, though, we'll need to get to the safehouse the moment we're out."

"Thought of that too," Jess passed a tiny bottle of clear liquid and another one filled with a gray substance through the bars, "Don't get it on his skin. It won't do the job, but it'll help," she explained. She glanced behind her, checking to make sure the street was still clear. "I have to get out of here before someone decides to peek. Good luck," she started to withdraw when she caught Robin's gaze. "And Robin… I'll be seeing you in a little bit," she added with a wink, sliding back into the shadows and disappearing.

Blaze grunted with muted laughter, sliding the lockpick into the lock of the irons binding his ankles and setting to work.

"What?" Robin asked, sliding back down into his corner. He moved his already-cramped arms as much as possible as he hit the floor, but it did next to nothing to ease the discomfort.

"She likes you," Blaze told his cellmate in an amused tone, "I just thought it was funny."

"Didn't really seem like it," Robin grumbled, Jess's sarcastic remarks still fresh in his ears.

"Well, she usually doesn't acknowledge the existence of most people until she knows them for a year or two, so this was pretty rare," Blaze chuckled, baring his teeth in a savage grin as he heard the snick of the lock in his irons retracting. He opened the shackles and slid his legs out of them, stretching them to shake out the kinks as Robin watched enviously from the corner. "I thought it was funny because we don't have a lot of female youth operatives in the Illuminati. Not on this planet anyway. A lot of the other guys would eat the dirt off of a septic tank to impress her, and they've been trying to do just that for years. Impressing her, not the dirt thing," the thirteen-year-old quickly clarified, "And then the person she's finally nice to is someone she's just met for the first time…oh man, I can't wait until the others hear about this…" he laughed quietly to himself for a few more seconds before returning to reality.

Blaze tip-toed over to the opposite corner of the cell, next to the door, and turned Robin around. He took out the small bottle of clear liquid which Jess had given him and opened it, taking a small whiff. "Whew!" he spluttered, coughing and snorting to flush the scent from his nose, "They still make this stuff strong…"

"What is that?" Robin craned his neck to see, but a warning glance from Blaze made him turn back around.

"The moment you don't respect it, it will turn your hands into black scars. Hold very, _very_ still…" Blaze dripped two drops of the fluid onto the center of the irons. An acrid smoke billowed up as the acid set to work. "Even with juice as strong as this, this kind of alloy will take time to fully get through. You may have to go through another indoctrination session before I can finish it…but that's the best I can do…" the thirteen-year-old waited for the acid to evaporate. Once it was gone, he brandished the hacksaw and began to work at the weakened layer of metal, biting through it one millimeter at a time.


	19. Chapter 18: Following the Breadcrumbs

**_Author's Note_**

_First off, I must apologize for the amount of time it has taken me to release this chapter. School has just started, and that will cut down on my writing time somewhat. I also had a bit of writer's block earlier on which I am working around, but it's starting to return to normal._

_Secondly, I must apologize if I came across as too rude in my counter-review. When I get criticisms, I usually answer those in private messages, but when it comes to plagiarism, I take that very seriously. When someone says I use elements from other works in place of original thought, so as to avoid any accusations of plagiarism I have to make my response visiible to all. But that is now out of the way, so sit back and enjoy!_

-TheAmateur

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Following the Breadcrumbs

**0200 Hours, September 4, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys Region, Terra Firma**

Alex Ambrose, for the life of him, could not fall asleep. He had just woken up for the second time in four days since the nearly-botched raid on the listening outpost. He had slept for three days straight, courtesy of the sedatives Tyrone had salvaged from the Insurrectionist prowler. He was invigorated, ready to move. Well, he was mentally…physically, not so much. He moved to get up out of his makeshift cot, if only to stretch his legs, and winced, painfully clasping his bandaged chest as it protested to the movement. Four days ago, Alex Ambrose's chest and abdomen had been the unwilling host to a hail of shrapnel from an exploding rocket, so one could understand why his body was content to remain immobile for the time being.

Sam had sedated him the moment the _Journey to Salvation_ was under way. Alley Garris had likewise been put to sleep; the retired UNSC marine had been shot in the shoulder during the fight. He had also been hit on the head by a falling piece of ceiling, resulting in a moderate concussion and internal bleeding.

The two of them had been operated on by Mr. Peruski, who had extensive medical know-how from his days in the wars with the Insurrectionists before Harvest happened in 2525. Polaris had flown the phantom across the ninety miles of ocean separating the Farseer Epsilon Outpost island from the mainland, a large continent called Terra Firma, and landed on a deserted stretch of jungle-like coastline so that Mr. Peruski could operate on solid ground. It would also have been a health hazard to have surgery on a ship which six other healthy people were living on. Better to perform it in an open environment.

Polaris had deactivated the phantom's cloaking systems. The stretch of coast which they were on was surrounded by dense and wild jungles; no one would be looking for them here. The phantom hovered around fifteen feet over the beach and its sensors would alert the party of any intruders long before they arrived. Tyrone, Sam, Angiers and all of the others had set up camp on the beach below the phantom while Alex and Garris were laid out on makeshift cots in the main hold of the phantom until they recovered.

It was chance that Alex had regained consciousness four days later when Mr. Peruski was checking up on his handiwork. Alley Garris had been able to stand up and move around several hours prior, but he was back in his cot opposite to Alex nonetheless, ordered to take it easy on his wounds so as to not upset the forming scar tissue.

Mr. Peruski had looked Alex over and gave a satisfied nod. "I considered stitching my initials into your chest wounds, but you'll have to make do with the invisible white sutures Tyrone got off o' that prowler back on the island. Now you Spartans have a knack for finding the deepest hole of shit in sight and diving headfirst into it, so I'll warn you now; ruin my hard work here and next time I'll stitch my entire name into you."

"Deal," Alex cracked a grin and moved to get up, but Mr. Peruski held up his hand and stopped him.

"You can sit up if you want, but no moving around yet," the old man commanded, "Not until we get some nourishment into you, otherwise you'd pass out before you could say 'Thank you, Mr. Peruski, for saving my life!', which, by the way, you haven't done yet."

"You'd start spouting on about how you hate getting all blubbery," Alex remarked wryly.

Mr. Peruski gave a shrug as he straightened up and stepped into the grav-lift. "Eh…I guess you're right," he surmised as he vanished from view. "I'll be right back!" he called up from the ground.

Alex found himself alone with Alley Garris, who had woken up some time before him. "Some night's sleep, huh?"

Garris snorted. "Yeah…that fact that I have to get _shot_ to be able to wake up and actually feel refreshed kind of puts a slight damper on the whole thing, but yeah…it felt good." He rubbed his wounded shoulder and adjusted his pillows into a more comfortable position before settling back once again.

"So I remember you saying that you had fought on Alpha Halo twelve years ago, right after Reach," Alex recalled, sensing an opportune moment to get an answer to a question he had been wondering about for some time.

"Yep," Garris confirmed. "I never talk about that battle…lot of bad stuff happened on that damn ring. We look back on that battle now and say it was a 'strategic UNSC victory'," The retired marine scoffed at the term, slowly shaking his head. "Well that 'strategic victory' was a victory only because of its long-run consequences for the Covenant…which is what counts, I guess, but it doesn't make it feel any better. Most, almost all of our boys never made it off that ring," Garris sighed, "All of them survived the Hell on and above Reach, only to get wiped out anyway. But what's done is done, no sense in griping about it now."

"That's just it, almost everyone died on that ring," Alex repeated, "We all know how the…the Chief escaped, and then the story leaked out about Johnson and several others escaping in a pelican. Other than that…if the Flood didn't kill you, how were you able to escape the blast?"

Garris looked unsure, peeking around to see if anyone was listening. After all, it was highly classified information which ONI would rather not share with the public. "Alright, I'll tell you, just don't tell the spook, okay?"

When Alex gave an agreeing nod, the retired marine continued. "There was a third group of marines who made it off, you know. I had been with them…we were led by Sergeant Stacker—he was only a normal three-striper then—and Corporal Chang. Both of them got promotions afterwards, but Chang was killed in New Mombasa...that was a shame; I liked him. Good man, deep laugh, liked to play poker with the rest of the boys…ah well, that's war. There were around ten of us, including Stacker, Chang, and I. When the Flood hit us, I was separated from the rest of the squad. I know that they escaped Halo too, but you'd have to ask one of them to find out how. I think it involved stolen banshees or something along those lines…but those are just rumors. Me…I didn't exactly escape Halo. After getting separated and nearly mauled about six or seven times, I fought through the swamps around the Library by myself…took me twelve hours to slip by. I was lucky; those Flood on Alpha Halo were only in the feral stage. They didn't have a Gravemind to lead and coordinate them. If they did…well I wouldn't be talking to you today if they did. Anyway, I didn't really escape Halo afterwards…I was taken prisoner-"

Alex had settled in, enraptured by Garris's story. After all, a story like this is something probably only a scant handful of individuals know about. Just as Garris was about to continue, the grav-lift flared and Mr. Peruski was back, followed closely by Sam and Colonel Angiers, the ONI spook.

Seeing Angiers, Garris quickly launched into an entirely different conversation about his experiences as an eighteen-year-old militia recruit on Harvest before pretending to notice the new arrivals. "Ah, here come the bearers of good news, I hope?"

"Sherlock?" Mr. Peruski called out, "Sherlock, where the hell are ya?"

"I am in this ship's systems, therefore I am 'everywhere'," the slightly synthetic, light male voice of Polaris spoke from the cockpit's communications array. "However, for the sake of simplicity, I shall assume my physical form."

A holographic brown-haired man with the beginnings of a goatee, clad in the trench coat and fedora of a stereotypical detective, Polaris's chosen avatar, shimmered into appearance over Sam's head. He took a look around and stepped aside, lowering himself down to eye-level.

"Tell him," Angiers nodded to the smart AI.

"The flight records in the Insurrectionist prowler's databanks did not, in fact, reveal the ship's previous locations." Polaris reported in an almost cheerful tone.

"What do you mean, there were no flight records?!" Alex nearly exploded, wincing as his chest began to throb. "Are you saying that I ate a rocket out there for _nothing_?"

"For security measures, all relevant data pertaining to the prowler's flight records is not stored in the ship's databanks; it is instead stored in a Magisterial Archives building," Polaris continued, completely unfazed by Ambrose's outburst, "These Archives buildings are normally kept top-secret, but I managed to follow the 'trail' which the flight data left as it was sent to the Archives building on this planet. In doing this, I have gleaned the location of the Archives installation."

Angiers then picked up the conversation and continued, building on Polaris's findings "According to Polaris, the Archives building is located in the city-state of Tethys, which is about seventy klicks west of here. Our repairs to the phantom's engines are now complete…we will be embarking for the city tomorrow morning…"

The rest of the conversation had been a blur. Plans were being drawn up, preparations made. Finally, things quieted down as the phantom was prepped for tomorrow morning's trip to the city. The sun had set over the ocean, creating a brilliant double-illumination as the sun's reflection on the water gradually moved to meet its counterpart in the sky on the horizon. The streaks of color painting the western sky faded into a dull red glow, then succumbed to star-sprinkled black as night fell. The ocean was a calm, flat, unbroken mirror of the sky, stretching out as far as the eye could see until, at some indistinguishable point, it melded with the sky.

Alex gave up trying to stand and sat back on his pillow, gazing out at the sea through the phantom's starboard side opening, which his makeshift cot—really several layers of blankets draped over a row of ammo crates—was set up next to.

_Beautiful place for all the sick people living here_…Alex thought to himself as he watched the ocean.

The phantom's grav-lift flared briefly as it carried someone up from the beach and into the main hold.

"Hey."

"Hey," Alex shimmied over to the edge of his crates to give his wife enough space to sit on the edge. "Can't sleep either?"

Sam leaned over her husband and gingerly peeled away the bandages crisscrossed over his chest, taking a look at the wounds below. It was enough to make them both wince; Alex himself had not seen under his bandages either until now.

There was a huge sickle-shaped scar running diagonally up from his lower-right sixth rib to the left side of his chest, curving neatly around his heart in a nearly perfect semi-circle. The scar was a bright crimson and it even _looked_ as if it were throbbing.

Sam traced the laceration with her finger, her mouth a hard line. "Do you remember back twelve years ago on the Ark?"

Alex winced painfully again, but this time it was only partially because of his aching chest. "How could I forget? I still have dreams about it…"

The Battle of Installation 00, or the 'Ark', had been the last major engagement in the Human-Covenant War and the second-last battle—the Battle of Installation 04(II) was still technically counted as a battle, and it occurred after the fighting on the Ark had ended. It had been on the Ark where Emma-G132 and Robin-G227, Alex and Sam's former teammates, had met their deaths. As such, that particular battle was never a topic of idle discussion.

"I just remember after the crash when we were dragging you into the hangar of that cruiser, Ty said that you were the 'unluckiest luckiest son of a bitch' he had ever met," Sam mused as her finger reached the scar's curve around Alex's heart. "He was right, you know."

"Kind of came with the job."

"No, it didn't," Sam whispered, leaving her finger lingering over Alex's beating heart. She tapped it lightly, her eyes unfocused as she fell deep into thought. "No, luck was never part of the job. Some of us had it, others did not. The ones who did not never lived to see the war's end, but the ones who had the luck did. You, however…you were different. You always walked the line between the two, you were always the one to get wounded badly enough to shake hands with Death. The accident on Onyx, the banshees in New Mombasa, the skirmish in the Ural Mountains, the charge across the Dnieper River in Kiev, the crash on the Ark…and now this. You don't know how it feels to agonize over something like that…not knowing if your loved one would survive another blow…you have no idea how relieved I felt when the war ended, when there was no longer anything which could put our future at risk. Now…now, we're back at it again," she broke off for a few seconds, her eyes refocusing. "How long before you get another scar, one which doesn't miraculously curve around this time?"

"Hey, come here," Alex moved over a bit more, allowing Sam to slip under the blankets. He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. "You're just stressing out. I want him back too…God, I miss him…"

"It's funny," Sam chuckled mirthlessly, "I half-expected ONI to pull something like this…I guess this makes it easier; we don't have to slaughter our own government's men."

The young couple lay in silence for several minutes, both of them gazing out over the tranquil ocean. After a while, Alex let out a yawn as fatigue finally hit him. "Big day tomorrow…we should get some sleep. And stop worrying about me! I'm not lucky…just incredibly hard to kill," the blue-eyed Spartan gave his wife a wink and wry smile, sliding down into the covers and closing his eyes.

Sam followed suit, pulling the covers up to her shoulders. _Incredibly hard to kill_…_but not impossible_…she thought to herself as she fell into sleep's comforting embrace.

* * *

"Rise 'n shine, lovebirds!"

Alex opened his eyes groggily, squinting as the brilliant late-morning sunlight streamed in through the side opening of the phantom's main hold and into his retinas. Officer Waters and Mr. Peruski were the last ones up through the grav-lift, bundling up their bedrolls and stowing them away in the upper hold. With everyone on board, the grav-lift faded away and the phantom's engines fired up. The dropship rose into the sky away from the beach below and turned west, heading straight for the city-state of Tethys.

"Initiating stealth systems," Polaris announced. The side openings shimmered briefly as the phantom's cloaking device activated, cloaking the ship in an enhanced light-bending active camouflage field.

As the phantom glided inland from the western coast of the continent of Terra Firma, the rugged, hilly landscape gradually transformed to a suburban setting, which in turn thickened into a full-blown, bustling metropolis. Tall buildings and skyscrapers lined the horizon. An organized grid of main roads and connecting avenues crisscrossed throughout the entire city, the blocks filled with small businesses, residential flats, and other infill which made up the bulk of any city.

"Set us down in a back alley," Tyrone told Polaris, "Someplace near our objective where no one will see us dropping out of the sky."

"Naturally," Polaris materialized in the center of the main hold, scratching one of his sideburns as he regarded his companions. "We are passing over the Archives building now…it appears to be disguised as a bank."

Tyrone, Sam, and Angiers all peered out one of the side openings at the buildings the phantom was flying over. Sure enough, there was a large bank with the name _Magisterial Armarium_ emblazoned above its front entrance. It was hard to miss; taking up an entire city block. There was a short, yellow-haired man who was standing in front of the entrance, addressing a small congregation of breakaways from the stream of pedestrians walking by, passing out flyers and leaflets. The phantom flew over and past before anyone could get a good look at him.

Polaris took the ship two blocks down and hovered over a secluded, empty back alley. "This is our stop."

"Where's my shirt?" Alex swung his legs out over the cot and onto the floor and began to rummage through the blankets and crates.

"Whoa there, Ace, you're not going anywhere," Tyrone pushed Alex back onto the cot, gesturing at his scarred chest. "Not until that heals up."

Alex was feeling a little better; he was able to stand and walk around, but his chest still gave him a lot of trouble when he pushed it. As much as he wanted to go on the next phase of the mission, deep down he knew that he wouldn't be able to make it through a city yet without giving himself away.

"Common, let's go," Tyrone headed for the grav-lift. "The sooner we get that info, the better. Polaris?" The dark-skinned Spartan reached into his pocket and drew out Polaris's square-shaped data storage crystal. Polaris's avatar flickered and vanished as he transferred himself into the crystal. The round hole in the center of the crystal began to glow purple with the AI's presence. Pocketing Polaris, Tyrone stepped into the grav-lift, descending towards the ground thirty feet below. Sam and Officer Waters followed suit, joining him on the ground.

Tyrone looked up to the sky in time to see the indigo glow of the grav-lift fade, leaving the phantom completely invisible. "This way," the Spartan led the way down the alley. Coming up to the wrought iron gate barring the entrance of the alley from the sidewalk of the street beyond, Tyrone and Sam effortlessly leaped up to the top. Sam vaulted over, landing gracefully on the sidewalk beyond. Tyrone leaned down and wrapped an arm around Officer Waters's waist and, with only the one arm, hauled the policeman over the gate, dropping him over the other side before jumping over himself.

The civilians going about their daily business didn't even notice them. Or if they did, they pretended not to. Sam took a closer look at the people as they began their walk down the sidewalk towards the bank. They were all normal human beings as far as she could tell, going about their lives and business like civilians in a UNSC city. The one difference was the silence. No one spoke, no one conversed, no one even showed very much emotion. Their faces were passive masks with shadowed eyes and drab complexions. Other than the sounds of the streets; car engines and motors, vendors, and whatnot, the city was eerily quiet in a way no city should be.

As the two Spartans and the UNSC police officer crossed the final avenue and reached the bank, they heard something out of place; a voice. The yellow-haired man in front of the entrance was still standing in front of the entrance, speaking loudly to a steadily-growing crowd of people.

At the same time, five other individuals, all of them dressed in black garb and armor similar to UNSC SWAT armor complete with face-obscuring helmets, were converging on the man from both all directions.

"This looks like trouble," Tyrone murmured, "Keep a low one."

The five men in black armor continued to weave through the crowd. The ones on the opposite sidewalk crossed the street, linking up with their compatriots. Seeing them approaching, the crowd quickly dispersed, mingling back into the stream of pedestrians. The lead man in black reached down to his belt and drew out a long, silver baton and delivered a sharp blow to the yellow-haired man. The man went limp as the electrical charge in the baton overloaded his nervous system, knocking him out cold.

An unmarked black van screeched around the corner and came to a halt by the sidewalk in front of the bank entrance. The five men in black armor all opened the back doors and climbed inside, dragging the helpless dissenter in with them.

Sam's hand drifted towards her waistband under the jacket she had worn to conceal her sidearm. Officer Waters gave her a warning glance and shook his head. "If we help that man, we will have every bad boy within ten kilometers charging down our throats," the policeman warned.

The armored men closed the van's doors and the vehicle took off, vanishing around the next intersection.

Sam sighed, muttering several of the fouler words of the English language under her breath.

"Those must have been Paladins, those Gestapo-freaks Polaris was talking about," Tyrone said in hushed tones as they resumed their walk, coming up to the entrance of the bank. "I'd rather not run into any of them here…apparently they're supposed to be ultra-fast fighters…and I'm not in the mood for a moderate challenge right now."

The two Spartans and the policeman opened the door to the bank and stepped inside. It had been warm and muggy outside, but inside the bank it was delicately air conditioned, not enough to induce chills, but enough to dispel any sense of discomfort left over from the external environment.

The lobby was a large, open room complete with a black and white marble floor. There was a cluster of sofas lining one of the walls and several desks lining the other. The desks were empty, but there were several uniformed men sitting around the sofas, chatting with each other in muted tones. There were more, older men dressed in suits conversing in groups and clusters all around the lobby as well, but no one seemed to be conducting any business.

At the far wall opposite the entrance was another, large front desk. An older, balding clerk with spectacles sat at the front desk, sorting through a pile of files. Sam, Tyrone, and Waters all walked up to the desk, grabbing the clerk's attention.

"May I help you gentlemen?" the clerk addressed the newcomers in a polite tone.

"Archives, please," Tyrone said bluntly and quietly so that none of the other men in the room could overhear.

The clerk's forehead crinkled in a puzzled frown. "Say again, sir?"

"You heard what I said," Tyrone declared, "Archives, please."

"No one visits the Archives…very well," the clerk shrugged. "Down the hall, third stairwell to the left. The Archives is a highly classified sector here. I do not know who you are or who you are attached with, but I will assume that you already have the clearance. God knows why _else_ you'd come to this city…make it quick," the clerk waved them off.

"You do not need to see any clearance?" Tyrone asked, surprised. He had been expecting the whole thing to be much more complicated than it was turning out to be.

"You can take that up with the bursar," the clerk replied, waving them off again.

"Wait here," Sam murmured to Officer Waters, "Watch our backs."

Sam and Tyrone then headed into the hallway the clerk had indicated, thaking the powers that be for the lax security. There were offices and doors leading to other places lining both walls of the long corridor, broken by the occasional stairwell. As the clerk had directed, the trio turned down the third staircase to the left, heading down two flights of stairs into the basement.

This particular stairwell led straight down into a large room filled with storage units. The Archives.

A tall, hawk-nosed man with curly red hair and a scrunched expression on his face was sitting behind a console in the front of the room. "I have no time for you; leave," the man said without even looking up.

Sam cocked an eyebrow, stepping up to the desk and getting into the bursar's face. "We need to see the flight records of a one of your ships."

"I told you; I do not have time for you. Come back in a week, or a month." the bursar continued to work on his console.

"Polaris, which ship is the one we need?" Sam asked the smart AI in Tyrone's pocket.

"Magisterial Prowler, service number 8000JX2B3659K," Polaris's voice responded, emanating from the data crystal.

The bursar reacted immediately. "That service number designation is of the Shade Branch of Special Operations! I need to see identification and authorization now, or I will alert the Paladins-"

Tyrone reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an M6H Magnum sidearm, brandishing it threateningly. "I assure you, there is no need for such uncivil behavior," the dark-skinned Spartan sighed. "All we require is access to the Archives. My AI is instructed only to-"

"No! This is outrageous!" the bursar exploded, standing up in indignation, his neck muscles twitching in fury. "I will _not_ simply hand out highly classified information about Special Operations like gambling chips! The Paladins will sort you out," the tall man bent down and reached for the communications array in his console.

Tyrone reached into his jacket and pulled out a long, black silencer and began to nonchalantly screw it onto the barrel of his magnum. "Please, Mister Bursar, have a seat," Tyrone flashed the man his signature smile full of white teeth and aimed his sidearm straight at the tall man's forehead. "I insist."

The bursar's face turned a deep shade of red, but he backed down and returned to his chair.

Sam took Polaris out of Tyrone's pocket and held the crystal close to the console. The purple glow in the data crystal winked out as Polaris's detective avatar flickered into appearance above the crystal, only three inches tall. He walked into the console and vanished, accessing the Archives. Within two seconds, the smart AI had everything he needed pertaining to the prowler which had taken Robin Ambrose out of UNSC space and onto Nemesis III. Polaris reappeared as his detective avatar and walked back into the data crystal, which Sam returned to Tyrone.

"I have acquired all sufficient data," Polaris reported, "I shall share it with you when we are-"

"Good," Tyrone cut the AI off suddenly. He caught Sam's questioning gaze and answered it with his eyes. Sam nodded in understanding; having Polaris mention the phantom in front of the bursar would be a huge security breach.

"I am sorry, but we cannot allow you to report our presence to your Paladins," Sam declared, moving over to the bursar. The tall man rose quickly, starting to protest, but Sam delivered a sharp blow to the back of his head, knocking him into next week.

"Let's move," Tyrone said, impatience creeping into his voice. They had been in this place for too long. The two Spartans made their way back up the stairs and down the hallway, striding back through the lobby at a brisk pace.

Officer Waters joined them halfway to the exit. "How did it-"

"Punched him in the face—let's go," Sam cut the policeman off, reaching the entrance door and sliding out. Tyrone and Waters followed her outside, letting the door slide closed.

The trio nearly jogged down the sidewalk for two blocks, oblivious to the black car trailing them. The Paladins inside the car had been watching them the moment they stepped into the Magisterial Armarium. They had breached the Archives without proper authorization, and the Paladins were curious why. Some questioning sessions were in order for the three shady individuals.

Sam leaped over the gate blocking the alley from which they had come from. Tyrone helped Waters over next, then climbed over himself, vanishing from view.

* * *

Thirty seconds later, when the Paladins watching the three intruders ordered the Magisterial Guardsmen called into the scene five minutes prior to move in, they would break the gate down and storm the alley. But they would find it empty, although there was no other exit.

"How could they have escaped when we covered the only exit?" the shorter Paladin in the passenger's seat of tthe black hovercar, asked his superior.

The first Paladin, the one in the driver's seat of the car, shrugged. "They must have a means of invisible transportation, crazy as it may sound. Access the Armarium's security recordings," the Paladin ordered, "Capture the images of their faces and send them in to Intelligence. I want to know who these individuals are and if they have any connection with what happened at Farseer Epsilon. Also, contact HQ and have them send a team of technicians down here. If they breached the Archives, they may have discovered some of our more...classified plans. The Tirque would not be pleased if their weapon was discovered before we give them the Ambrose child."

The second Paladin accessed the car's mobile console and set to work.


	20. Chapter 19: When it Rains

Chapter Nineteen: When it Rains...

**2231 Hours, September 4, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region**

Deputy Director O'Riley was pleased. Although Hugo Lorring, the quartermaster and technical wizard of the Shade Branch HQ in Tethys, had a remarkable reputation for his efficiency, but O'Riley had not expected him to deliver as soon as one day. While initially surprised, the Deputy Director certainly was not complaining. The monthly shuttle to Archon Island should not be arriving until tomorrow afternoon, so this gave him plenty of time.

Just as O'Riley bent down to pick up the first of the two crates of thermite charges, the door to the storeroom slid open, sending a slight draft into the room. Inquisitor Muëllen stepped inside, straightening his shirt before addressing O'Riley.

"Come with me," the Inquisitor gestured for O'Riley to follow him back out into the corridors. "There are some things you need to know."

Casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at the two crates of thermite, O'Riley followed Muëllen out the door and through the network of hallways running through the Cruciamentum. They took a short-cut through the holding cells, striding down the long hallway lined with cell doors. O'Riley had never been down this part of the indoctrination facility before, preferring instead to remain in the other areas. "How many others do we have in here besides the Ambrose boy and the traitor?"

"None," Muëllen replied, slipping through the doorway at the other end of the corridor. "There used to be two others; a nine-year-old boy and a fifteen-year-old girl. The girl's indoctrination was completed two days ago and she was sent away, the boy died in the Chamber last week. The younger children don't usually survive, and he was no exception."

O'Riley pursed his lips, repressing the surge of anger he felt at the Inquisitor's indifference. Despite the tragedy of having one child lose her mind and another lose his life, it greatly simplified his plans. He would not have to go to any length of trouble to make sure innocent prisoners were far away, or worry about collateral damage.

Muëllen led the Deputy Director up a flight of stairs and through another corridor before entering a small room filled with a good amount of sophisticated equipment operated by several Guardsmen. To O'Riley's knowledge, this was the Cruciamentum's control room.

"Our plans have changed somewhat," the Inquisitor began to explain. He gave one of the operators a discreet nod.

The man closest to the Inquisitor input a series of commands into his console. The large viewscreen taking up one of the control room's walls flickered to life, showing a compound of smoldering and still-burning buildings and several dozen corpses of Magisterial Guardsmen splayed out all over the place. It was clearly the remnants of an outpost, maybe one of the isolated listening or recon installations.

"How did this happen?" O'Riley squinted, leaning in closer to get a better look at the screen. "The Illuminati are organized and deadly, but even _they_ don't have the strength to obliterate one of our outposts like that…"

"This is all that remains of Farseer Epsilon, a listening outpost situated on an island ninety miles off the west coast of Terra Firma," Inquisitor Muëllan explained. "It was attacked and destroyed by an unknown force five days ago. We have limited footage from this camera; it was the only one not destroyed in the attack. The only clear image we got of the attackers was this-" he nodded to the operator again.

The viewscreen's current image was replaced with one of two young men sprinting out of a building near the entrance of the compound towards another building which the camera could not see. They were both in their mid-late twenties and wearing black combat fatigues and jackets. The larger man was dark-skinned, extremely muscular. He had shorter black hair in the beginnings of an afro and an iron jaw. He had the look of a leader about him, someone who could run straight at Death without so much as blinking. The second man was much smaller, both in height and in build. Truth be told, he almost looked puny, but O'Riley knew better. He had fair brown hair which was starting to hang into his eyes. He was pale and freckled, but his most striking feature were his eyes; they were a harsh shade of electric blue which seemed to pierce through anything they gazed upon. In the image, he appeared to be heavily wounded, but he was moving nonetheless.

"These two were obviously not the entire attacking force, there were others, but they were the only ones we could get a visual on. We are lucky to have this image at all…You know these men?" the Inquisitor asked, noticing O'Riley's reaction to the viewscreen's image.

The Deputy Director gave a slow nod. "The black one is Tyrone-G083. He is a Spartan-III, a supersoldier from the war. He was part of a company of 330 children recruited to fight the Covenant…only thirty-two of them are still alive today, the rest all died in the final battles. He's a deadly one…apparently he was able to beat an Elite in an arm-wrestling contest-"

"And the other one?" the Inquisitor cut O'Riley off, impatient for answers.

"The other one is Alexander-G004, also a Spartan-III of the same company. He took the surname 'Ambrose' after the war's end and still uses it today. He is Robin Ambrose's father."

"Doesn't look like much," Muëllen observed the smaller man in the image, a small note of disappointment creeping into his voice.

"That's probably exactly what hundreds of dead Covenant have said as well," O'Riley retorted. "You do _not_ want to find yourself in a fight with him."

"I digress…" the Inquisitor shook his head, clearing his mind and returning it to the present. He gave the operator a final nod. "The Archives in the Tethys Region was breached earlier today. And this is an image of the three perpetrators who committed the act."

The image of Tyrone-G083 and Alex Ambrose shrunk, diminishing to take up only half the viewscreen. A second image sprang up to fill the other half. This one depicted the inside of a bank lobby. Three people were on their way out. The operator highlighted the picture of Tyrone in the first picture, and then did the same for the second one, which Tyrone was in as well.

"Same person in both places," Muëllen stated. "We have connected the two. The prowler which you and Director Culwynn used to take Robin Ambrose away from Earth and out of UNSC space was also at Farseer Epsilon. We think they gained access to its databanks during the attack. That would explain how they found the location of our top-secret Archives building."

"And if the Ambroses have found the Archives, you think they would also have found out that their son is _here_," O'Riley finished for the Inquisitor.

Muëllen nodded. "Exactly. They are probably on their way now. The Magistrate has ordered us to move the Ambrose boy to Archon Island, where we will continue working on him. The good news is that the monthly shuttle to Archon Island will be arriving at midnight tonight, earlier than expected. It will be cutting it close, but we just might be able to move him before the Ambroses arrive."

O'Riley's stomach turned to lead as he digested this new information. This put a lot of pressure on him now. Originally, he had been planning on executing his plans early tomorrow morning, but if the Archon Island shuttle was arriving in an hour and a half, he had to act _now_. "If you will excuse me, I must make preparations."

"Yes, go ahead," Muëllen waved the Deputy Director off.

O'Riley jogged back through the corridors and down the stairs, returning to the storeroom. He bent down and gripped the first of his crates, levering the lid open. "Hello, my beauties…" he murmured as he started to take out the thermite charges.

* * *

Six kilometers away, a cloaked phantom sliced through the air, speeding over a wide open plain towards Mire City, a dark, sprawling blanket of buildings built around a large river.

"So give everyone the plan one last time," Bill Collins said to the holographic detective, who was idling in a corner of the phantom's main hold. Collins would be assisting Colonel Angiers in monitoring the surroundings during the operation, making sure the ground teams had no unwelcome surprises. He was also anxious; if the boy were killed before he could be rescued or if the mission failed, he was truly afraid of what Sam Ambrose might do to him afterwards. A lot was staked on this mission.

Polaris snapped back to reality. "Very well," he said, walking through the air back to the hologram projection array set into the centre of the main hold's floor. A solid holographic representation of Nemesis III sprang into existence, complete with swirling clouds, flickering storms, and moving oceans. "We are currently in the Meillan Region, a state covering most of the eastern peninsula of the western continent of Terrus Occasus."

The hologram of Nemesis III zoomed into a point in the planet's western hemisphere. The clouds vanished, revealing a large continent shaped roughly like a fat crucifix. The hologram focused in on the eastern arm of the continent, zooming in on a large city in the region's central plains.

"This city is known as Mire City, according to the data I acquired from the Archives," Poalris explained. "It is the location of one of Nemesis III's three Cruciamenti. A Cruciamentum is basically a type of prison where adolescent and pre-teen troublemakers are taken to be indoctrinated, which is their way of saying brainwashed."

"Brainwashed?" Garris repeated. Polaris had not talked about aspects of Insurrectionist life like this before; it was coming off as something of a surprise.

"Yes, the Magistrate—the collective term for the Insurrectionist government as well as the five-man ruling body which serves under the High Chancellor—seems to employ certain methods of brainwashing to turn troublemakers into pro-government drones. Either that, or the children die in the process. The Magistrate loses no sleep either way."

"Idiots…" Sam muttered. "Breaking away from the UNSC for _this_. However bad the UNSC may have been in those days, it was never totalitarian."

"Anyway," Polaris continued, "The Archives' databanks on the prowler which we found on Farseer Epsilon has revealed that it landed briefly at the Cruciamentum in Mire City. It was logged that your son was dropped off there and has been incarcerated ever since."

"Where is this Cruciamentum?" Alex asked the smart AI next.

"Here," Polaris gestured to the hologram of Mire City, which zoomed in even further. The image focused on the southern reaches of the city, specifically a large, mostly abandoned ghetto. The Cruciamentum was obvious to spot. It was a large, black and gray complex situated in the middle of the ghetto, standing out amongst its drab and dilapidated neighbors. "There are extensive security defenses in place around the Cruciamentum, so we will not be able to land directly on or next to it without being shot out of the sky, cloaked or not. I will land us here," a pulsing yellow beacon appeared a full kilometer away from the Cruciamentum, tucked away in a back alley, hidden from the view of any lucky peeping toms. "This ghetto is abandoned by the civilians, so there should be no fear of collateral damage. How we will actually storm the Cruciamentum will be up to you; I have next to no data on the place."

Tyrone nodded, satisfied. "There is probably going to be heavy resistance, so I think only Sam and I should-"

"And me," Alex interrupted.

"No, Alex, your chest still needs to-"

"My son is in that building. I am going, and there is nothing you are going to do to stop me. Get the idea?"

For one of the first times in his life, Tyrone-G083 backed down. "Aight, bro. Just try to take it easy...don't give your wounds any excuses to wreak hell with your system."

Mr. Peruski was already in the process of choosing the color thread which he would use to sew his name into Alex's chest wounds when Polaris reported that the phantom was nearing the drop zone.

Everyone gathered at the side openings and gazed outside at the passing landscape. The thick of the city had passed by and now they were flying over a large ghetto full of dilapidated and crumbling buildings made out of metal and brick. Some of them had collapsed or caved in completely, leaving rubble and garbage strewn throughout the streets.

"Approaching DZ now," Polaris announced.

"Gear up!" Tyrone bellowed.

* * *

"Hey! _Hey_! Common, stay with me here," Blaze hissed, shaking Robin awake. "We need to be ready to _move_ once these things are through." He continued to saw at the almost-completely cut figure eight-shaped irons binding Robin's hands behind his back.

Night had fallen several hours ago. Robin had undergone another session of indoctrination lasting all morning and afternoon. He had been tossed back in and shackled up just as the sun was going down.

The two boys had been lucky; the Paladins had not noticed that the irons had been nearly sawn through. Jess, Blaze's partner in the field, had slipped him a bottle of some silver paste-like substance along with the flask of acid. After the sun had risen, Blaze had filled the tear in the irons with the paste. Once it hardened up, it looked just like the alloy, concealing his work.

The moment Robin had been dumped back into the cell, Blaze had set back to work on his irons. The hardened paste had come away easily, exposing the gash in the irons. He had been sawing away with the diamond-edged hacksaw which Jess had slipped him.

Robin, who was exhausted to the brink of deliriousness, mumbled something in reply, but Blaze could not understand him.

"Look, you have to keep awake until we reach the safehouse. Once we get there you can sleep until next year, but you can't cop out on me now," Blaze kept on talking steadily, keeping the younger boy from nodding off. He kept sawing away at the irons, baring his teeth in satisfaction when he saw his progress. The irons were held together by only a thread of alloy.

The black-haired thirteen-year-old kept working for the next hour, wearing the metal down further and further.

Robin mumbled something else, but it was still unintelligible. Blaze asked him to repeat himself and he did, putting more energy into his voice. "So why do they call you Blaze? What's your real name?"

Blaze cracked a grin, old memories flashing through his brain. "After I was taken in by the Illuminati, I wandered off into one of their testing chambers and nearly incinerated myself with a prototype NA7 Flamethrower. I had no name before that, so everyone just started calling me Blaze. My hair's been jet-black ever since…" he chuckled at the memory. "I was only eight years old; I touched nearly everything I saw; we _all_ did at that age…only difference was that most other eight-year-olds did not have access to military heavy weapons. My old name from the workhouse was O928-77, to answer your other question."

Robin gave a light grunt. "Yeah…stick with Blaze; it has more of a ring to it."

Blaze kept on chatting about his past for the next five minutes when the irons binding Robin's hands suddenly went **_SNAP_** and broke in half. The manacles were still around Robin's wrists, but they were now two separate pieces of metal rather than a single set of shackles. Blaze had already cut through the top link in the chain securing the remains of the irons to the wall, so he slid the manacle around Robin's left wrist out of the cut he had made.

He let out a loud whoop of joy and nearly started to leap about the cell, but he contained himself. _We're not safe until we reach the safehouse_, he reminded himself. He leaned down and shook Robin again. "Kid, you're free! Get up, we have to leave!"

Those words alone acted like a shot of adrenaline. Robin's half-closed eyes snapped open, wide and alert. He stretched his cramped arms, sighing with pleasure as he eased out the kinks which had been plaguing him for days. He brushed a stray lock of hair from his eye and climbed to his feet…

* * *

Alex Ambrose was lying flat on his stomach on the third floor of a half-collapsed building across the street from the Cruciamentum. The roof was long gone, along with half of the third floor, leaving the top of the building's interior open to the elements.

Ambrose rested his sniper rifle on the remains of the wall, adjusting his sights and focusing in on the Cruciamentum itself. There was a constant patrol of Guardsmen walking around the perimeter of the prison as well its roof, keeping a constant, vigilant lookout for trouble.

Well, trouble had come calling tonight, but they would never see it coming, despite all of their faithful and cautious patrolling.

Alex's job was to get an assessment of the best point of entry into the building, and he had chosen this building to be his last observation post. He had observed all of the other sides of the prison, making this his last sweep. This was also the most promising side; there was a service entrance on this side of the Cruciamentum which seemed to lead into some kind of storeroom. That was probably where the prison's supplies were stored and taken in. Provided the patrols did not change their timing, it would be a simple matter to sneak in through that entrance without being seen.

"What's it lookin' like, Eagle-Eye?" Tyrone whispered to Alex from behind, using his friend's old callsign from the war.

"I think we have a winner," Alex answered. "Service entrance at one o' clock, take a look."

Tyrone crawled up next to Alex and pulled out his field glasses—very powerful military-grade binoculars—and observed the Cruciamentum across the street, paying close attention to the spot which Alex had indicated. He gave a low hum of satisfaction, nodding. "Good work," he said, "That should do nicely…"

"Backup team, what's your status?" Alex whispered into his COM unit.

There were a few seconds of silence before the voice of Officer Waters came through from the other end. "This is backup team, we are in position. If you need help, just give us the word. Backup team out."

Officer Waters, Mr. Peruski, and the barely recovered Alley Garris were holed up in another building not too far away, ready to render assistance to the main team if needed.

The main team comprised of the Ambroses and Tyrone. Because of the extremely high risk factor of storming a heavily fortified and defended Magistarium structure like this, everyone had agreed that it would be best for the main team to comprise of only Spartans.

"Are we a go?" Sam, who was crouching behind the two men in a dark corner, hissed.

Alex and Tyrone gazed at the service entrance for a few minutes longer, gauging the milling patrols and sentries. For a little while, there was no break, but then there came a lull in the ranks. The ground patrol did not show up around the corner and the rooftop sentries were leaving their posts.

"The guard is changing," Alex noted. "There's no better chance for us than now."

Tyrone nodded in agreement. He unslung his M90 from his back and racked the pump, his mouth curving back in a wolfish grin. "Let's move!"

The three Spartans stood up and sprinted for the edge of the building, leaping off into the street. They all executed quick forward rolls as the hit the asphalt, dispersing the force of the impact. They continued to roll until they were back on their feet, shaking off the three-story plunge as if it were a pinprick.

Alex gripped his chest, which had started to painfully throb in protest to the extreme movement, but his face gave away nothing.

The three Spartans crossed the rest of the street. Just as they were thinking that everything might actually go to plan, just as they set foot on the sidewalk, all hell broke loose.

The explosion ripped the Cruciamentum to pieces. The huge building's entire roof was thrown fifty feet into the air from the force, spinning away into the night and crashing through other buildings across the streets. One of the entire sides of the Cruciamentum was blown out, littering the street it bordered with burning debris and roaring white flame. The other three sides were not damaged as badly, but parts of all of them still collapsed.

The three Spartans were thrown all the way back across the street from the shockwave of the explosion which had destroyed the Cruciamentum, impacting painfully into the curb.

Their COM units crackled to life not a nanosecond later. "What the hell was that?!" Collins's voice, startled and high-pitched with panic, burst through.

"Main team, are you alright?!" Colonel Angiers's voice said next. "Main team, please respond!"

Tyrone grabbed his COM unit and responded to the spook's transmission, giving his status and those of Alex and Sam.

Sam had hit her head on the curb and was just starting to sit up. Her eyes were glazed. She looked dazed and shell-shocked. Tyrone moved to help her, but Alex remained rooted to the spot where he stood.

Alexander Ambrose stared into the roaring white and yellow flames consuming the Cruciamentum, his emotions running wild like a river full of rapids. "He was in there…" the Spartan murmured. "My son was in there…"

Alex had been feeling pure shock, a kind of paralyzing trauma which blanked out everything else. Now, his emotions hit him, roaring through his mind and body like the white flames consuming the remains of the Cruciamentum. He sprinted towards the burning prison.

Tyrone sprang into action, sprinting after Alex. He caught up and threw himself into him. To Alex, it felt like a freight train had just ran him over. He went flying, landing on the road in a heap. He moved to get back up, but Tyrone practically sat on top of him, pinning him to the road.

"Let…me…_GO!!_" Alex screamed, struggling futilely against his friend's superior strength.

"It's no good, Alex!" Tyrone roared, wrenching Alex's arms behind his back and jamming his knee down between his friend's shoulders, immobilizing him. "He's gone! He's gone, and killing yourself won't bring him back! It won't make Sam too happy either, and it _won't_ kill the ones responsible for this!"

Alex's struggled grew less forceful until he finally stopped and went limp, submitting himself to Tyrone's hold. He started to shake and Tyrone let him go, concerned with what was happening to his friend. He flipped Alex over onto his back and was almost startled to see that his old friend was crying. Tyrone had never seen Alex cry before and the sight was unnerving to him. He offered Alex a hand, but his friend made no move to take it.

Alex quickly stopped crying after a minute and sat up, mumbling quietly to himself in an unintelligible tone. He rocked back and forth on his haunches…just sitting there talking to himself. Just as Tyrone was really starting to get concerned, he stopped muttering abruptly and stood up, casually dusting himself off as if he had just been through an old house. "Let's go," Alex said emotionlessly. "There is nothing for us here."

He brushed past Tyrone, moving towards Sam, who was just getting to her feet, tears streaming down her face.

Tyrone watched him go. Something had changed about his old friend within the millisecond of the explosion. The light in his eyes seemed to have gone out, replaced by a black fire.

Hatred. Pure, dark, all-consuming hatred.

Tyrone had faced off with brutes and their chieftains in hand-to-hand combat in the war. He had even done the same with the Flood, the parasitic horror which had destroyed the galaxy once and nearly got a second chance during the war. He had stared down all of those horrible things during the war without so much as flinching, but when he looked into Alex Ambrose's eyes, he was truly afraid of his friend in that moment.

Tyrone shuddered, dispelling his feelings, and turned to join his comrades


	21. Chapter 20: It Pours

Chapter Twenty: …It Pours

**2337 Hours, September 4, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region**

Robin stretched his cramped, newly-freed arms, sighing with pleasure as he eased out the kinks which had been plaguing him for days. He brushed a stray lock of hair from his eye and climbed to his feet…

…only to get thrown back down into the wall a moment later.

The explosion was massive; the earth itself seemed to be upended from the sheer force of it. Blaze and Robin were hurled into the wall, bouncing back off and falling painfully onto the floor. The walls burst in and part of the ceiling collapsed, showering the two boys with debris.

"What the hell was that?!" Robin screamed, leaping away from the roaring walls of white flame which were tearing down the corridors.

"Who cares, we need to get out of here or we'll be fried!" Blaze shouted, clambering back to his feet. "The Guardsmen are gonna be all over us in a minute, we have to get out _now_ before they can secure a perimeter around the whole place!"

"Hope your friend is still here," Robin climbed to his feet as well, shaking the ash out of his hair.

The entire corridor outside had been demolished, filled with wreckage from the upper floors. The flames, which had gone from brilliant white to a more normal yellow, barred the remains of the cell's exit. Half the cell roof was gone, lying in a mountain of debris in front of the collapsed entrance, consumed by the flames. Robin's stomach did a flip-flop, feeling queasy all of a sudden. Had Blaze gotten the irons off a moment later than he did, Robin would be a part of that rubble.

With the hallway out of the question and the flames closing in, that left only one method of escape. This was how Blaze had considered doing it for weeks, but until he had met Robin it had been an impossibility. Now, with Robin's hands free, it would finally work.

Robin grasped the lattice of metal bars covering the cell window. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths, silently counting to three. On three, he let out an almost high-pitched roar and heaved. The lattice of metal bars bent considerably, but held firm.

"Again!" Blaze urged Robin on. "Common, we've both survived too much already just to buy it here!"

Robin wiped his forehead and gripped the bars a second time. He started the silent count again. At 'three', he heaved once more. The lattice of bars began to screech as the metal twisted. Several of the bars came free from the stone wall surrounding them, but the lattice remained stubbornly fixed.

"Come on, again!" Blaze screamed, eyeing the flames nervously. The air had gotten extremely stuffy as the flames greedily devoured all of the oxygen in the small stone room. If the boys did not get outside soon, they would not have to worry about burning to death; the lack of oxygen would suffocate them.

Blaze had resorted to holding his breath and inhaling very slowly. "Robin, I can't even begin to tell you how much _now_ would be a good time!"

"I know, I know! Breaking firmly-fixed metal embedded in stone isn't as easy as it looks, you know," Robin retorted. "If you think you'll fare any better, than by all means," the twelve-year-old stepped aside, inviting Blaze to test his strength against the bars.

"Alright, I'm sorry!" Blaze exclaimed, rolling his eyes to the heavens. "When the world starts collapsing and burning down all around me, it puts me a little on edge!"

Robin returned his attention to the lattice of metal bars, massaging his arms and cracking the joints in his fingers. He grabbed the lattice and instead planted his feet against the wall below the window, hanging onto the metal to keep himself from falling. This new position would give him a lot more leverage than simply standing in front and heaving.

_One_…

Robin took a few deep breaths, calming himself down. He concentrated on the lattice of bars in front of him, tuning everything else out. The explosions coming from deeper inside the Cruciamentum, the popping and crackling of the flames in the former corridor outside, the lightly Irish-accented voice of Blaze shouting his complaints; everything dulled and faded into a mere hum.

_Two_…

Robin's mouth set in a hard line. There was another, larger explosion somewhere close by, sending a shower of cinders and masonry into the cell, but the twelve-year-old ignored that as well. The cell did not matter, only the window did.

_Three!!_

Robin felt a surge of adrenaline rush through his system. He threw all his weight and strength against the latticework of metal bars covering the window, battling with the stone's embrace for a final time. He felt slight pops coming from muscles he didn't know he had as they strained to break the metal.

With a gratingly loud scream of protest, the metal lattice bent, twisted, and tore its way free, taking large chunks of the stone wall with it. The result was a jagged hole in the wall at street level considerably larger than what it had once been.

Robin landed on his feet and cast the metal grate into the fire. His arms were twitching from the huge feat they had just accomplished. Although he felt invigorated, Robin knew that he would be sore as hell tomorrow morning.

If he lived to see it, that is.

Sirens wailed nearby as the army stationed in Mire City responded to the huge explosion which had torn the Cruciamentum to pieces. Guardsmen could be seen jogging down the sidewalks while tanks and other vehicles streamed down the roads, some of them unloading more soldiers as they stopped.

"That was bloody amazing!" Blaze managed to say, almost speechless. He had always known that Robin Ambrose, possessing his parents' augmentations, would probably be able to rip away the metal barring the window, but to actually _see_ him do it was still…shocking. "Now let's move!" the black-haired boy lifted himself up to the cell window and crawled outside through the hole, gingerly avoiding the jagged edges. He turned and extended a hand to Robin, who took it and climbed up through the hole as well, crawling out onto the street.

It would have been a sight to see to any unsuspecting passersby; two filthy boys covered in soot and ashes who looked like they had been sliding down chimneys flopping out onto the sidewalk. But, the ghetto was abandoned, and the only onlookers would be soldiers who would shoot them for trying to escape a huge crime scene.

Robin and Blaze sprang to their feet and pounded across the street towards the other side. Robin was only going a fraction of his full speed to allow Blaze to keep up. He couldn't really blame the older boy; the young Illuminati operative had his legs chained up for nearly three weeks. The most he had ever moved was being escorted to the bathroom once a day. It was a miracle he could still walk adequately, let alone run.

The two boys were about halfway across the street when the Guardsmen noticed them. The column of vehicles and soldiers had established the perimeter around the other side of the Cruciamentum and were circling around both sides to meet up in the center of the other side, where Robin and Blaze were currently trying to cross the street. There were shouts from soldiers on both sides, exclamations of "Stop!" and "Halt, or we'll open fire!"

The two escapees only ran faster, sprinting towards a back alleyway which would take them deeper into the ghetto where they could evade the Guardsmen, meet up with Jess, and get to the safehouse.

There was a deafening clatter as a heavy vehicle-mounted MG opened fire, ripping up the asphalt around the two fleeing boys as they leaped up onto the sidewalk. The sharp triple crack of a battle rifle in semi-automatic mode rang out as one of the guardsmen opened fire. Blaze let out a surprised cry and stumbled, pitching forward towards the pavement in a face plant.

Robin caught him and supported him with his shoulder, half-dragging the older boy into the alleyway and out of sight. He rounded the first corner and stopped, letting Blaze slide to the ground.

The thirteen-year-old had a hand clasped to his abdomen. When he moved it, it came away bloody. There were three holes in his abdominal cavity, perfectly spaced from each other, all three of them bleeding rivers. Blaze glanced down at the bullet wounds and let out a quiet groan. "This wasn't in my plans…" he mumbled. He blinked several times, but found it hard to refocus.

"Where's Jess waiting for us?!" Robin asked Blaze urgently. He didn't know where to go, and Blaze's only chance was to get to the safehouse. "Where do I go from here?"

"Down…down past the next street…" Blaze mumbled. He frowned slightly and stared, as if trying to remember the answer to an elusive question.

Robin snapped his fingers right in Blaze's face, jerking him back to awareness. "Blaze!"

"Past the next street…" Blaze continued to murmur, "At the corner…in front of the old bakery…she is waiting there…"

Robin didn't waste another second. He picked Blaze up with one arm and slung him over his shoulder, continuing down the alleyway towards the next street. He picked up the pace, running as fast as he could with a larger boy over his shoulder, which was still much faster than humanly possible for an un-augmented man.

The streets were dark, illuminated only by the occasional flickering street light. Large chunks of debris from the Cruciamentum still cast off flaming embers and a harsh glow. Robin dodged these obstacles, casting nervous glances over his shoulder as the shouts of Guardsmen echoed off the walls of the alleyways. The men manning the perimeter around the destroyed prison seemed to be organizing a pursuit.

Judging from what he had learned about the Insurrectionist military from his short stay with Blaze, it was safe to assume that the search party would be led by a Paladin. If that was the case, Robin knew that no street would be safe until he reached the safehouse. Paladins were almost supernatural with their prowess at law enforcement, especially hunting down fugitives and runaways. Robin didn't think a beleaguered twelve-year-old boy would pose them much of a challenge.

Robin reached the other side of the street and headed down to the left, hurrying down the sidewalk until he reached the corner of that street and one of the avenues intersecting with it. Sure enough, across the intersecting road was an old, dilapidated, burnt-out shell of what had used to be a bakery in a previous life, back when the ghetto had been a thriving population center.

Robin slowed as he reached the ruined building and ducked inside, shutting the remaining half of the entrance door behind him to conceal his presence. He crossed over to the counter where the bread, rolls, and other products would have been stored, laying Blaze out on its flat surface. The thirteen-year-old had fallen unconscious. His face and skin was deathly pale, contrasting sharply with his jet-black hair and the soot covering his body.

Robin heard movement behind him and whipped around, fists raised, only to drop them a moment later. Blaze's partner Jess, the thirteen-year-old girl with blond hair and deep, hazelnut-brown eyes, emerged from the shadows behind the counter. She nearly did a double-take as she took in the sight of Blaze bleeding out on the counter.

"What happened?!" she nearly screamed, rushing over to examine her partner.

"Something blew up the whole Cruciamentum," Robin explained, talking faster than a longsword fighter breaking the sound barrier. "The whole place was torn to pieces! I…we…we busted out like we planned, but the soldiers had nearly surrounded the place…we just barely managed to get through before they closed the perimeter, but they opened fire…"

"Jesus, he's bleeding out," Jess gripped Blaze's ragged shirt and ripped it open, exposing the three bullet wounds. "Why didn't you staunch the blood flow when he got shot?! He's lost too much blood already…"

"If I had stopped to help him, we would both have been shot by the search party."

"Search party? You're being followed?" Jess asked agitatedly. "We have to hurry…damn Paladins are like bloodhounds when it comes to hunting down fugitives." As she spoke, she gripped her own shirt, tearing off several strips of the black fabric. She crumpled one of them and pressed it to the three bullet wounds, tying it down and binding it with the other two. It wasn't much, but it would last Blaze until they could reach the safehouse.

Shouts and orders were heard as the soldiers from the perimeter around the former Cruciamentum streamed onto the street which the bakery was situated on.

Jess put a finger to her lips. "Not. One. Peep," she whispered. "Follow me."

Robin picked up Blaze, slinging him back over his shoulder, careful to avoid upsetting the wounds. Thankfully, Blaze made no noise as he was moved.

Jess led the way, slipping into the back room. There was a wide-open hole in the wall, opening up into yet another alley-way. As the soldiers drew nearer, running their fine-toothed comb through the streets of the ghetto, Jess and Robin flitted from building to building, keeping to the shadows as they went. Twice they had close calls with search parties, but those parties had no Paladins with them, so nothing went too wrong. In the end, sometimes, luck plays as big of a role as skill in a person's survival.

After ten minutes of playing their deadly game of hide-and-seek, Jess led Robin across one last street and into what appeared to have been a metal factory. Half of the original building was gone, reduced to rubble by negligence. Parts of the floor had also broken through as well, revealing the basement level down below. That's where Jess headed, into the basement.

The basement comprised of several hallways lined with storerooms and a large chamber filled with old, burnt-out boilers set into the walls. Jess walked up to one of the boilers and blew on it, scattering the layer of dust covering the blackened window. Robin could see something there, a symbol etched into the polymer. It was an unfinished pyramid. Its peak hovered above the unfinished cap of the structure, a human eye emblazoned in the center of it.

"The All-Seeing Eye," Jess explained, noticing Robin's interest in the symbol. "It was the symbol of the original Illuminati from Earth, nearly 1,000 years ago. We've adopted it as our own."

The blond-haired girl felt around the side of the boiler and found what she was looking for. The entire boiler let out an audible _**thunk**_ and swung out as Jess pulled the hidden lever. Behind the fake boiler was a large room which looked like an underground army bunker, complete with cots, a medical care station, a kitchen, and several other accommodations. This was, without a doubt, the Illuminati safehouse which Blaze had kept on referring to.

Robin stepped inside, heading straight for the metal table situated in the corner of the room with the rest of the medical equipment. He gently lay Blaze down onto the table as Jess entered last, shutting the boiler/door behind her and sealing it. When the search parties eventually combed through this particular building, they would pass right over it.

"Alright, get those cloths off of him," Jess ordered Robin. "We need to get those bullets out of him, and fast, before we can stem the bleeding."

Robin did as he was told, untying the two makeshift bandages and removing the third, exposing the wounds in Blaze's abdomen. "So…how do you two know each other?" he murmured as he cleaned up the mess of blood spilling onto the table with a surgical sponge which Jess had tossed him from one of the drawers in the medical station.

"Save the talk for later, I need to concentrate," Jess said not unkindly, but stern enough to make Robin shut his mouth tight.

"Sorry."

Jess rummaged around the drawers until she found the one with the surgical equipment and drew out what she was looking for; a wicked-looking scalpel which caught the light in a way all scalpels seemed to, and a pair of long, thin, tweezer-like tongs. She set the tongs onto the counter and opened the large bottom cabinet, taking out a simple, medium-sized, silver cylinder which had a thin tube snaking out from an opening in its side.

"Okay, here's the deal. If we don't get that lead out of him soon, he's going to die," Jess laid out the situation for Robin. "I don't want that, and neither do you, so we're going to have to operate. Don't worry about the actual work, I'll handle that, but you'll need to be there when I need you. See this?" Jess gestured to the silver cylinder.

Robin nodded, listening carefully.

"This is an emergency surgical vacuum. There's gonna be a lot of blood, and when I call for suction you need to turn this baby on and hold the tube into the wounds. It will clear away the blood and allow me to keep working," she put the cylinder on the table and slid it over to Robin.

Robin took the cylinder and set it aside, flipping the red switch on the top. The emergency surgical apparatus began to hum quietly as it was turned on, sucking up air through the tube in its side in a powerful vacuum.

"These are clamps, and these are retractors," Jess held up the tongs, showing them to Robin before giving them to him, and then held up another instrument which resembled something similar to a v-shaped nut-cracker. "I will need both of these, and when I call for them you need to give them to me without any hesitation. Clear?"

Robin gave a shaky nod, laying the two instruments down next to the vacuum.

"Okay…here goes…" Jess took a deep breath and leaned over the table, sliding the tip of the scalpel into the first of the bullet wounds and making a small incision about an inch across. "Suction…" she muttered.

Robin ignored the blood flow and grabbed the thin tube running out of the vacuum and slid it into the incision. The blood cleared away, allowing Jess to see what she was doing. She asked for the retractors. Robin picked up the appropriate instrument and handed it to her, taking the bloodied scalpel in exchange. He was about to wipe it down when Jess told him not to bother.

Jess slid the retractors into the incision and placed them between Blaze's ribs. Once in place, she started to extend the retractors, spreading the two ribs apart so that she could get past them to the bullets. "Clamp," she said.

Robin gave her the tongs. She took them, but gestured for Robin to come over to her side of the table. "Hold the retractors for me," she ordered.

"What?" Robin exclaimed. "I thought you said-"

"All you have to do is hold them and don't let go," she explained. "I need to get the slug out, but I can't do that with only one free hand. Hold the retractors."

Robin obliged, grabbing hold of the rib-spreaders and holding them in place.

Jess squinted into the incision and gingerly inserted the tongs, slipping them past the ribcage, straight to the bullet embedded in Blaze's gut. She clamped down around the piece of metal and slowly, carefully drew it out. She dropped it onto the end of the table with a loud clink.

Jess and Robin repeated the same process for the second bullet, which had gone in right next to the first. After removing the first two bullets, the incisions were packed with a few drops of bio-foam to stem the bleeding and temporarily seal them up for the rest of the operation.

Jess took back the scalpel and made one last incision over the third and final bullet wound. "Suction," she ordered again.

Robin complied, holding the vacuum tube up to the wound, clearing away the blood.

Jess peered into the wound for a few seconds, a frown slowly contorting her forehead. She took the tongs and prodded around for a minute before her eyes widened. "Oh, fuck!" she shouted suddenly.

"What! What is it?!"

"See the blood on the table?"

Robin and Jess had been concentrating so hard on the wounds that they hadn't noticed the blood collecting on the table, seeping out from Blaze's back.

Jess grabbed Blaze and gently rolled him slightly to a side, revealing a fourth hole about six inches under his left armpit. "This is an exit wound," Jess explained. "The only way for a bullet to enter through the abdominal cavity and exit at such a different angle is for it to ricochet off of a rib, and I just found the one which it pinged off of. And it's cracked; Blaze has bone marrow seeping into his bloodstream."

"Is that…is that bad?"

"It stops your heart," Jess snapped. "Keep the suction going, I need to get something."

Robin did as he was told and kept clearing away the blood flow regularly. Jess rummaged around in the cabinets and drew out several containers of multi-colored liquid holding them up to the light to confirm what they were. She then took out a syringe and drew out carefully measured quantities of each solution, gently shaking it around to mix them all together, resulting in a milky-clear liquid. She returned to the table and leaned back over the wound. "Don't ask what's in here," Jess murmured as she gently, but firmly pushed the syringe into the cracked rib. "Only thing that matters is that it works..." She gradually pushed the solution into the bone, holding the syringe in place until it was completely empty. She drew it out and lay it on the table.

Jess then took the canister of bio-foam and sprayed the remaining healing polymer into the four wounds, effectively sealing them. After that was done, Jess took a large bandage out of the cabinets and put it over the wounds, pressing it in for a second so the adhesive could stick.

Robin let out the breath he had been holding throughout the entire operation, his shoulders sagging as his exhaustion returned. The adrenaline of the escape from the Cruciamentum had worn off. "Is he gonna be okay?"

Jess shrugged, picking up the surgical instruments and cleaning them with a rag soaked in rubbing alcohol. "We've done all we can. People have died from wounds like that, but he still has an okay chance. What he needs is to get to our hospital in Portus Illuminatus…but for now, he's as okay as he's gonna get," the young Illuminati operative sighed. She finished up with the instruments and began to put them away. "You look like death on feet; get some sleep."

Robin trudged over to one of the cots and lay down, pulling the blankets over himself. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

Jess watched him depart from the land of the aware, a dash of envy crawling into her heart. It had been years since the lasat time she had managed to fall asleep so easily. She let out a weary sigh and placed the newly-cleaned scalpel back in its cabinet along with the retractors and the clamps. She slid her arms under Blaze and lifted him up, carrying him over to another cot, laying him down and covering him with the blankets.

That done, Jess walked over to another corner of the safehouse, the one with the communications station. She activated the COM and carefully set it to the highly secret sub-channel used by the Illuminati. "Gerald?" she spoke into the transmitter, "Gerald, are you there?"

The COM was silent for a few moments before the man at the COM which the safehouse communications array connected to answered. "Jess, is that you?" Gerald's light, jovial voice issued from the receiver.

"No, it's the High Chancellor," Jess rolled her eyes. "Of _course_ it's me! I have good news and bad news. Good news; Blaze escaped from the Cruciamentum."

There was an audible choking sound coming from the other end of the COM. "Seriously? Is he okay?"

Jess could tell from the Watchman's tone that he hadn't expected Blaze to make it out. "That's the bad news. He was shot during his escape and badly wounded…I've stabilized him and cleaned him up, but he needs to get to Portus Illuminatus, and fast. The Ambrose kid is here, too."

There was another silence from the other end, Gerald didn't reply.

"Gerald, you there?"

"Jess, you have to understand that Mire City is a huge red-zone for us. The security is too heavy where you are to send an extraction team."

"You had better not be saying what I think you're saying, Gerald," Jess said in a dangerously quiet voice. "If we wait too long, Blaze could come down with an infection. We could be discovered before that…these safehouses were designed for temporary, short-term, last-resort use; you _know_ that!"

"If I send in an extraction team, they'll be massacred before you could say Hava Nagila, _you_ know that! I'm sorry, but you have to first get out of Mire City before I can help you."

"You're saying that we're on our own?!" Jess nearly exploded. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself.

"I-I…God damn it…" Gerald let out a sigh. "Alright, the best I can do is send you some help. Nathan and Sean are manning the listening post five kilometers out of Mire City…I could send them to the northern safehouse. That's all I can do, you'll have to get to the northern safehouse yourself. I'll pass your news along to the Illuminatus and the Coordinators. I want to help Blaze as much as you, don't get me wrong, but your primary objective is to get the Ambrose boy out of Mire City safely. If the Magistrate recaptures him, we'll have huge, _huge_ problems."

"I understand," Jess grumbled. "That's all."

"Good luck. And Jess? It's good to have all of you back. Gerald out."

* * *

Deputy Director O'Riley stepped over a still-burning chunk of what had used to be part of the roof of the Cruciamentum. The perimeter teams had gotten the blaze under control, but it was still a long way away from being pacified.

Teams of Guardsmen led by Paladins were jogging this way and that, breaking into buildings and conducting thorough sweeps, searching for the escapees.

O'Riley pursed his lips as he watched them. He was certain that they would not find the two boys and the girl who had helped them. The older boy and the girl were Illuminati, and the Illuminati had survived on Nemesis III for decades because of their ability to remain hidden.

The thermite charges which Lorring had sent O'Riley had been much more powerful than the Deputy Director had expected. His intention had been to create only a distraction, not blow the whole building into the next millennium. His miscalculations had nearly gotten the boys killed; he vowed to never rely on such a huge amount of chance again.

He strode down the street, gazing at one particular building on the far side. He had been outside the Cruciamentum when he set off the charges, waiting for the Ambrose boy and the young Illuminati to make their move. He had seen them emerge through the window, he had seen the two boys try to cross the road, and he had watched helplessly as the Illuminati boy was gunned down.

O'Riley took out his datapad and brought up the GPS, checking his position and that of the tracker embedded in Robin Ambrose's neck, just to be sure. Sure enough, the pulsing yellow dot which represented the tracker rested over the building which O'Riley was looking at; an old, half-destroyed setup which had been a metal factory decades ago.

"Hell of a night, mm?" Commissar Brandt, the political officer of the unit of Guardsmen which was conducting the operations around the Cruciamentum and in the streets of the Southern Mire Ghetto, came up behind O'Riley.

O'Riley quickly put his datapad away and nodded quickly in response. "Inquisitor Muëllen and five of the guards were killed in the explosion," the Deputy Director reported. "The technical staff and the rest of the garrison made it out…I was accompanying a patrol around the perimeter at the time…I was lucky; if I had been in my quarters, I wouldn't be here right now."

Commissar Brandt grunted. He drew his trench coat tighter around himself and adjusted his hat as the breeze began to pick up. "You or any of the ground teams in this sector find anything?"

O'Riley gazed one last time at the building in which he knew that Robin Ambrose and the two Illuminati children were hiding. "No," he replied. "Nothing."


	22. Chapter 21: Knowing One's Enemy

_Author's Note_

_Well, judging by the lack of any feedback since my counter-review, which was nearly three weeks ago, I believe I've scared off all of my readers! I'm still going to continue writing this; I've finally thought out most of the plot and I think it's going to turn out really well, and I'm not the kind of person to let something like that go to waste. My point is that I won't be updating as often as I used to. School has started up and I'm involved in the Fall play, so my free time is dwindling anyway. I'm in my Junior year this year, so I actually have to care about it, therefore I'll have a lot more work to handle. I'll try to update once a week regularly from now on, maybe twice on good weeks._

_EDIT: Okay, turns out there was no freak disaster which killed all of my readers, some of them are still alive out there! But I'm still going to be updating somewhat less often._

_-TheAmateur_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One: Knowing One's Enemy

**1200 Units, 77****th**** Day of the Sun's Embrace, Twelfth Cycle (1****st**** Age of Restoration) \  
Sanghelios, Urs Triplate System**

**Iolous, The Heartland **

Iram 'Ovarumee was roused from his slumber by a tall domo Minor. Judging by his dark skin, the Minor must have been from the 'Taham Archipelago, a large chain of islands in the southern regions of the Great Ocean. The sun was strong in that region, and as such, all Sangheili from there were generally dark-skinned.

"The Humans have arrived, Fleet Master," the Minor reported. "The Elder Councilor is awaiting your presence in place of Supreme Commander 'Yeromee, who is currently indisposed with repairing the damage done to your Fleet. The Imperial Admiral will be present as well."

'Ovarumee was out of bed before the Minor could finish his sentence. The Imperial Admiral and the Elder Councilor; two of the most powerful figures in the Sangheili quasi-government, were in the same place—_here_—waiting for him. The Fleet Master wasted no time. "Thank you, you may go."

The Minor nodded, gave a quick salute, and stepped out of the room, heading off down the corridor. The door hissed shut behind him.

'Ovarumee swiftly slipped into his golden armor, briefly checking his appearance in the mirror. His armor was far from perfect; covered in burns and blemishes, souvenirs from his ground campaigns against the Jiralhanae. He never removed them. Although some considered it to be unorthodox and substandard, 'Ovarumee was proud to show off his scars. It was similar to how a warrior would favor a battered sword which he had carried, fought with, and survived with through countless battles over a golden, jewel-encrusted ceremonial one.

The zealot also cared little for politics, and as such he was not fazed by meeting two of the most powerful Sangheili in less than pristine armor. If they were so deeply offended by his appearance, they could challenge him to a duel, though, given his reputation as a swordsman, 'Ovarumee doubted that would ever happen.

The zealot grabbed his energy sword from the bedside nightstand and slid it into his belt. Now, properly attired, the Fleet Master headed for the door and walked out of his quarters.

The Great Citadel was arguably one of the largest structures on Sanghelios, with the possible exception of the Ourouran, the sacred crypt in which all of the bravest and most revered Sangheili who served in the military were interred. The Citadel was located in the center of the city of Iolous, which was in turn located in the Heartland, the large island-nation which acted as the de facto capital of the planet. It was where the Council resided, along with many military figures. It was something of a 'nexus of civilization' for Sanghelios.

The Citadel was the equivalent of the Human HighCom, acting as the centre of military command. It was the Citadel where Fleet Master 'Ovarumee had been sent by his Supreme Commander upon the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression's arrival at Sanghelios. And it was in the Citadel, now, where the higher-ups would meet to discuss the threat of the mysterious race of aliens which had openly attacked their worlds.

'Ovarumee passed several other Sangheili of all ranks, giving and receiving respectful nods as he made his way past all of them. The zealot stepped into a lift, which took him up out of the residential section and into the upper levels of the Citadel. It hissed open, revealing a breathtaking view of the rest of the Citadel and the city below, stretching out for miles.

A stone bridge connected the tower 'Ovarumee just stepped out of to the central keep in the middle of the Citadel. The zealot strode across the causeway, passing a pair of Councilors on his way. The rest of the walk was uneventful; he entered the keep and proceeded straight to the council chamber. The two guards standing at attention in front of the chamber's entrance stepped aside and allowed the zealot to enter, giving respectful salutes to the esteemed Fleet Master.

'Ovarumee pushed open the doors and strode inside, taking stock of those inside. He had only been inside of this chamber once before when he had been promoted to the rank of Fleet Master, and it was just as he remembered. Tiers of seats rising up along the spherical walls of the circular room, an open space in the middle of the room for guest speakers and those who held the floor, the blue plasma torches illuminating the space from the ceiling.

Waiting in the room for him were four individuals; two Sangheili and two Humans, standing in a circle, conversing with each other in hushed tones.

One of the Sangheili was dressed in long, flowing white robes and the ceremonial headdress of a Councilor. His skin was grayish-white with old age, his eyes were a milky blue, and he was stooped over farther than younger Sangheili would be. He was Illiam 'Rehuiree, the Elder Councilor, the de facto Head of State. He operated the civilian side of the government, paying attention to day-to-day affairs and logistics rather than military needs.

The affairs of the military fell to the Commander in Chief of the Sangheili forces, Imperial Admiral Uilar 'Ahrimee. Standing at eleven feet, 'Ahrimee was tall, even by Sangheili standards. He wore silver armor emblazoned with golden Forerunner symbols, the customary garb of an Imperial Admiral. His skin was a deep brown and his eyes the fiery orange which made them so famous throughout the civilian and military world.

"Fleet Master 'Ovarumee," the Imperial Admiral greeted the zealot, giving him a polite salute and nod. "Your reputation from the Battle of High Charity precedes you. It is an honor."

"You give me too much credit," 'Ovarumee knelt down on one knee in the presence of these great individuals.

"Rise," the Elder Councilor commanded. "I can live without the formalities, Fleet Master," the old Sangheili sighed. He then gave a quiet chuckle and curved his mandibles in a slight grin. "But you give off no arrogance, something I cannot say for every zealot I have met…that is respectable indeed."

"The ship whose special operations detachment boarded the alien spacecraft was a part of Fleet Master 'Ovarumee's portion of the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression," the Imperial Admiral explained to the Elder Councilor and the two Humans. "He will be briefing us on the way to the interrogation chambers."

One of the Humans, an older, gray-haired man with a hard, chiseled face lined with wrinkles, dressed in a white uniform adorned with several medals, and wearing a naval admiral's hat introduced himself as Fleet Admiral Patrick Emerson, the Commander in Chief of the UNSC military. 'Ovarumee shook the man's hand, adhering to the customary Human greeting.

The other Human was visibly younger than the first, although by Human standards he was still middle-aged. He looked to be in his forties with jet-black hair, a full, trimmed beard, and gray eyes. Contrasting with the Fleet Admiral, he was dressed more casually in a green and brown combat jacket and a military cap adorned with four silver stars, displaying his rank. "'Ovarumee…" the younger Human murmured, a glint of recognition in his eyes at the mention of the name. "The name rings a bell…I believe I fought alongside one of your kinsmen during the war, Fleet Master," the bearded man said, his voice layered with an odd accent, a mix of British and Scottish. "My name is Ian McCandlish."

'Ovarumee grunted in surprise, recognizing the Human's name as well. "That would have been my cousin, Aerath," the Fleet Master hummed. "He was one of the ones chosen by the High Council to travel to Earth ahead of the Fleet to assist the Humans in their battle against the Loyalists. He told us stories of a Human Field Master with your name, one who fought and survived at his side, holding off an entire flanking force of Jiralhanae and Unggoy," 'Ovarumee looked at the general with a new respect. "You fought like a Sangheili."

General McCandlish smiled and gave a hearty laugh. "I remember…Old Mombasa, twelve years ago…well, I was a lot younger in those days."

The five individuals slowly walked out of the council chamber, heading down the corridors until they came to another elevator. After the doors sealed, 'Ovarumee began his report. "I believe you already have all of the relevant data pertaining to the naval battle which occurred beforehand, so I will not waste time with that," the Fleet Master began. "One of my cruisers, the _Forethought_, which is commanded by my younger brother, was the ship Supreme Commander 'Yeromee ordered to board the single alien ship which had survived the naval engagement. I was debriefed by K'ran 'Ainumee, the one commanding the spec ops boarding party. He and his team took losses, but encountered two different species of aliens on that vessel, and also managed to capture their ship's databanks before they could wipe them. The aliens call themselves the Tirque, and they appear to be a union of two different species…similar to the old Covenant in that aspect. The first species seemed reptilian in nature, lizard-like in appearance. According to the data we acquired from their vessel, these aliens are called 'Hinaptryi'. They possessed extremely tough skin or hide…'Ainumee reported that they were highly resilient to plasmafire. They also stand at an average of twenty feet-"

"Wait, so let me get this straight," McCandlish interrupted. "You're saying that we're up against a race of bloody plasma-resistant invincible Godzillas?"

"General..." Fleet Admiral Emerson said in a warning tone. The Fleet Admiral was good friends with the General, and he trusted him greatly, but deep down under the four stars, General McCandlish was still the fiery-tempered Captain who had fought rabidly against the Covenant over a decade ago. More often than not, he still acted as if he was still wearing the double bars of a captain, as opposed to the four silver stars of a full general.

'Ovarumee was unfamiliar with the term 'Godzilla', but he assumed that it had something to do with a ridiculously tall lizard, so he gave an affirmative grunt. "Yes."

The elevator came to a rest and opened, allowing the five individuals inside to continue down a dimly lit corridor which was clearly underground. They walked down this corridor and down a flight of stairs off to the side, eventually finding themselves in a small room with a long mirror set into the wall.

"The special operations team also encountered a second species of aliens. They are called 'Sentia', and they appear to form the more intellectual side of the Tirque, and that seems to extend to commanding vessels. 'Ainumee's team managed to capture a live Sentia from the bridge of that ship after wiping out its crew of Hinaptryi. Darken the lights, please."

General McCandlish moved over to the door and closed it, flicking off the lights as he did so. Once the lights went off, the mirror suddenly became a window with a view into the next room, which appeared to be an interrogation room.

There was a metal table in the center of the room, and strapped down onto that table was a humanoid creature. It was slightly taller and thinner than average Humans, and its pale skin had a subtle bluish hue to it. It wore only a scant undergarment, tubes and monitor sensors ran through the rest of its body. Whatever the tubes were pumping into the alien, it seemed painful.

A short female Sangheili was seated at the console in the room, closely monitoring the alien's vitals and bodily functions, gleaning all she could about the creature.

"This…this is a Sentia?" Elder Councilor 'Rehuiree said in a muted tone, his voice layered with awe at the sight of this new, unknown species.

"Doesn't look like much," McCandlish muttered.

"Would these be similar to the Prophets from the old Covenant?" Fleet Admiral Emerson asked, moving up to the mirror/window for a better look.

"Similar, I suppose…" 'Ovarumee conceded the Fleet Admiral's point. "But not identical. The Tirque, as I said, are a union of the Sentia and the Hinaptryi…the Sentia certainly seem to be the more intelligent of the two, and they handle civilian affairs more than military, but they are not supreme leaders. The Tirque union is also one of mutual benefit and prosperity, not one of religion. In some ways, they are much more civilized than the Covenant ever was, if only amongst themselves and not to other species."

"Did the specimen give any insight as to why his kind has attacked us?" the Elder Councilor asked next.

"For simpler reasons than you would believe, Wise One," 'Ovarumee replied. "Based on what we have gleaned from Subject Zero—that is what we refer to this alien as—their desire is to, in a nutshell, dominate the entire galaxy."

"Never heard that one before…" McCandlish rolled his eyes. Fleet Admiral Emerson gave him a warning glance, silencing him. The general cleared his throat and gestured for the Fleet Master to continue.

"So what makes Humans such a thorn in that master plan of theirs?" Emerson asked instead.

"We had to push Subject Zero to the limit of his endurance to get that answer out of him. The reason is the Forerunners…or rather, their technology. Our technology is relatively equal to theirs, but Forerunner technology is vastly superior. Humans are the only ones who can use it. By that token, Humans are the only ones who can pose a real threat to their whole empire, so therefore the Humans must be wiped out."

"Ah, the old 'exterminate the Humans' ploy again…never gets old…" McCandlish grumbled under his breath.

The Imperial Admiral drew a tentative breath, digesting this new slough of information. "I have received troubling reports from the Fleets of Steadfast Obedience and Introspective Reflection. They were dispatched to Tarses and Eolis to deal with these same aliens, and they reported that the aliens there had extremely large vessels, some much larger than our assault carriers. Given the size of these 'Hinaptryi', it makes more sense…it appears that one of their normal cruisers is slightly larger than one of our assault carriers. Their command ships are even larger than our supercarriers…both Fleets took many losses in their battles. The aliens your Fleet encountered at Asgard seemed to be a mere reconnaissance force; they only had small destroyers attacking that colony. Surely your boarding party must have noted that the ships your Fleet encountered were crewed only by roughly a dozen Hinaptryi?"

'Ovarumee gave a nod. "I noticed the same thing, sir, but had no time to think upon it. You are saying that they possess much larger ships, ones with proper-sized crews?"

Now it was Imperial Admiral 'Ahrimee's turn to nod. "Their proper crews are most likely measured in the hundreds rather than the thousands, but for them I would imagine that would be standard."

'Ovarumee took a moment to consider facing several hundred angry reptilian leviathans in close quarters on one of their ships. K'ran 'Ainumee's team and the detachment of warriors sent to assist them had taken losses fighting a mere dozen of the creatures, let alone several _hundred_. "I believe that rules out any further boarding operations…although now that we have acquired their databanks, I do not foresee a situation akin to that arising in the future."

The Imperial Admiral hummed in agreement, clicking his mandibles once.

Fleet Admiral Emerson cleared his throat and got everyone's attention, then began to speak. "When our frigate first encountered these aliens and the Insurrectionists at Cibola, the shipboard AI was able to pick up transmissions between the two groups. They mentioned an invasion into our space, but they also mentioned a plan…a secret plan…a weapon of sorts, one they claimed would be able to defeat both of our races."

"I assume they did not divulge what this weapon was?" the Elder Councilor asked.

"They kept referring to a name…Ambrose. This 'Ambrose' would play a crucial role in using that weapon," Emerson explained. "A month ago, an eleven-year-old boy named Robin _Ambrose_ was kidnapped from his home by unknown individuals. Those individuals were Insurrectionists. He turned twelve several days ago."

"What use could a youngling be to your Separatists?" 'Ovarumee inquired the Fleet Admiral.

Emerson shrugged. "We have no idea what this weapon is or what it does or even how it works, but we do have a fair idea why this Robin Ambrose was abducted. 'Ambrose' is not really his last name, you see. He is the son of Alexander-G004 and Samantha-G113, which is why we knew about it when it happened. He is the only child of Spartans, receiving most of their genetic augmentations from birth. If this weapon required someone particularly special in some physical or mental regard, the Spartan boy would be a logical choice…all of this is pure speculation, you understand."

"I know them…" General McCandlish interjected, memories from the war filling his brain. "Back when I was a captain, a company commander…I fought alongside them in Mombasa and Voi. Excellent fighters, they were…I s'pose it wouldn't be too surprising if the Insurrectionists had extensive knowledge of them."

"What I dislike is that even though we know more than we ever have before about this new threat," the Imperial Admiral admitted, "we have yet to see all of it. This mysterious weapon seems to be something we should be preparing for, devising a method to neutralize or destroy, but we know nothing about it. I do not like being the one in the dark."

"You're not alone, my friend," Emerson agreed.

The Elder Councilor opened his mandibles to say something, but the door burst open and a domo Minor hurried into the room. "Imperial Admiral! Imperial Admiral 'Ahrimee, sir!" the young Sangheili exclaimed. "Your presence is required in the Command Center immediately!"

The Imperial Admiral immediately snapped to and left the room, taking brisk strides with his long legs. Emerson and McCandlish had to jog to keep up with the tall Sangheili.

The Imperial Admiral led them all back to the elevator and took them down several levels. The doors slid open, revealing a short corridor with two heavy double doors at the end, guarded by a pair of Minors. The door guards saluted and stepped aside for the Imperial Admiral and Elder Councilor.

'Ahrimee pushed open the doors and strode into the command center, a huge room filled with consoles and stations of equipment and civilian Sangheili communications corps members to operate them all. It was a combat command post times twenty. The room was dark, lit only by the bright screens lining the walls and in the consoles, casting a pallid glow about everything in their range.

"Councilor on deck!" a voice barked from somewhere near the back. All of the Sangheili ceased their work and stood up at attention in respect for the Elder Councilor, who was higher than the Imperial Admiral. Had the Elder Councilor not been present, they would have done so for 'Ahrimee.

"Carry on!" Elder Councilor 'Rehuiree nodded to everyone and gestured for them to continue, though he looked pleased to be acknowledged.

A Sangheili domo Major made his way through the throng and stood in front of the Imperial Admiral, coming up to the tall Sangheili's shoulder. "Imperial Admiral, sir, thank you for returning on such short notice. This way, please."

The Major led the five newcomers through the throng towards the row of consoles lining the very back of the room, or the very front of it, depending on how you looked. "Show them," the Major commanded the older Sangheili operating one of the larger consoles.

The operator nodded and input a series of commands into his console. The screen flickered to life, revealing shaky footage of a formation of all-too-familiar golden, conical vessels engaging three Human frigates. In the background was another alien ship, but this one was humongous, twice the size of an assault carrier, and assault carriers were five kilometers long! The three Human ships were all damaged, but were so far able to evade the Tirque ships' weaponsfire.

"What is this?" 'Ahrimee exclaimed.

"We received this just minutes ago from Irivet V, another one of our colonies with the Humans," the Major explained. "These ships came out of nowhere and engaged them. Those three Human ships are the only survivors of the garrison sent there to safeguard the place.

The Imperial Admiral thought about it, and he thought lightning-fast. "Fleet Master 'Ovarumee, return to your ship and make sure all of your crew are aboard. I'm sending word to Supreme Commander 'Yeromee; your Fleet has just received its new assignment. You are to proceed to Irivet V immediately and deal with these 'Tirque'. Irivet V has orbital defenses, so you can expect some heavy ground fighting. Good luck."


	23. Chapter 22: Tearless Farewells

Chapter Twenty-Two: Tearless Farewells

**1304 Hours, September 9, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

_**Journey to Salvation**_

Bill Collins was nervous. For the past five days since the botched rescue mission in Mire City, he had been keeping a low profile. The Cruciamentum had somehow been blown up, and Robin Ambrose was now dead. The boy was dead.

No matter how Collins tried to think of it in a different light, ultimately Robin Ambrose was now dead because he had been kidnapped, and the journalist had helped the Insurrectionists do it. He was just as responsible for the boy's death as the rebels. When the Ambroses first found him in New York and forced him to come on this 'adventure', Sam Ambrose had threatened him, warned him that her son had better not be harmed.

_You had better get down on your knees and _pray_ that nothing happens to him. You are on thin fucking ice my friend…and _I'll_ be the one under it when it breaks._ Sam Ambrose's words echoed through the journalist's head.

Well, Robin was dead. The ice had broken, but so far Sam hadn't been there to receive him. She had been quiet lately, speaking with Tyrone for a little bit, but otherwise keeping to herself.

Alex Ambrose disturbed the journalist—and everyone else for that matter—even more. He rarely spoke, and when he did it was only a word or two at a time. His eyes had a dark look to them and his face was a stony mask. It was strange, a warping of nature to see the normally mellow and good-natured man in such a dark light.

"Something on your mind, Bill?" Colonel Angiers asked. The ONI spook was the only other one in the phantom's cockpit, keeping an eye on the consoles for anything out of the ordinary. It was more of a way to pass time than anything else, as Polaris would easily detect any threats well before Angiers could.

"Hm?" Collins turned to Angiers, a dazed expression on his face. "Oh, no-" he shook his head and straightened up, yawning and stretching his cramped arms. "Nothing, just…well…"

"I know," Angiers nodded in agreement. "The explosion, the boy's death; everything happened so fast. I'm still having trouble sorting it all out."

As the two men continued to converse, the phantom lurched slightly and began to descend back into the atmosphere of Nemesis III. "What the-"

"Polaris, what's happening?" Angiers asked the smart AI inhabiting the phantom's systems.

"We are returning to the surface," Polaris announced cheerfully to the two men in the cockpit, his physical avatar shimmering into existence between them. "Alexander Ambrose desires to be dropped off in the city-state of Tethys."

The spook and the journalist shared a quick glance with each other, disbelief painted across their faces. Collins sprang up out of his seat and opened the cockpit door, walking right into the middle of an escalating argument.

"-data from the Archives says that the forward invasion forces have been _sent_ already!" Tyrone exclaimed. "There's gonna be heavy fighting at the outer colonies; we're gonna _need_ fighters like you!"

"And what of the rebellion taking place _here_?" Alex calmly replied. "The Illuminati will soon be given a golden opportunity."

"You would sacrifice the whole of the UNSC just to fuel a rebellion here?"

Alex's mouth curved up in an ever-so-slight smile. "You'll be fighting for the UNSC, so that won't happen. Once the Magistarium's main invasion force departs for the UNSC, Nemesis III will be left virtually defenseless. There will be a garrison left behind, but it will be swept away if I can get the Illuminati to attack at the right moment."

"You don't even know where to _find_ the Illuminati, let alone advise them!" Tyrone howled.

"That's what I'm hoping to do during my time here," Alex explained evenly, his expression and tone remaining static as ever. "After I pay a few certain someones who kidnapped my son a 'special visit'."

"We have arrived over the city of Tethys," Polaris reported like a flight attendant, his avatar 'walking' in from the cockpit. As he spoke, the armor sealing the side openings and the deployment hole in the floor slid away, exposing the inside of the phantom to the elements.

"Sam!" Tyrone turned to Sam Ambrose, who had been sitting on one of the crates, resting her chin on her fists. "Sam, are you seriously going to allow him to go through with this? Come on; use your common sense-"

"We have to try," Sam said simply.

That provoked a reaction from Alex, who shook his head vehemently. "No, _I_ must try. _You_ are going back to Earth with the others."

Sam gave a small shrug, as if she was accepting what her husband was saying.

"Polaris, activate the grav-lift," the blue-eyed Spartan ordered.

Polaris paused for a nanosecond to comply. Sure enough, the deployment hole began to hum and glow with the familiar indigo light.

Alex turned to Tyrone and began to speak one last time. "I just want to-"

Alex got to say nothing more, because Sam chose that moment to strike. She sprang to her feet and sprinted over to her husband, delivering a sharp blow to the back of his head. Alex was too surprised to react; a look of shock was written over his face in the moment before his eyes rolled up and he collapsed, out cold.

"He would never allow me to remain here with him," Sam explained calmly. "So now when he wakes up on the surface with me there with him, he won't exactly be able to send me away."

Tyrone let out a defeated sigh, his shoulders slumping. "Just don't get yourselves killed out there aight? The world doesn't need anymore dead heroes."

Sam didn't answer. Frankly, she couldn't.

"This is a revenge mission for Alex," Tyrone warned Sam. "Don't try to convince me otherwise…he's changed since the explosion. He's become…darker. Not sad, not depressed…he's gotten darker. He's out for revenge. The thing about revenge missions is that there are only three possible outcomes: success, failure—which means giving up, or death. There is no partial objective, there is no tactical victory; the whole thing is emotional and mental. I know Alex as well as you; so you can rule out failure, and that leaves only two possible outcomes. As long as the Magistrate still exists, he will continue to kill them off one by one until they are all dead, or until he dies first. And even if he does succeed in killing them all, he'll still feel empty when he realizes that revenge won't bring his son back. Keep close to him, Sam. Keep close to him and keep him safe, because without you, he'll become a monster."

Sam nodded wordlessly. She grabbed her BR-55 battle rifle and her husband's prized sniper rifle, tossing the weapons into the grav-lift, which lowered them to the rooftop which the phantom was hovering above, invisible. She then gathered Alex up in her arms and stepped into the grav-lift herself. "See you in another life," was the last thing she said as she vanished from view down into the deployment hole.

The indigo glow of the grav-lift vanished as Polaris shut it down. Bill Collins also seemed to relax a little bit after she was gone.

"There goes a very disturbed couple…" Officer Waters murmured quietly, peering down through one of the side openings before the armor slid over and sealed them shut.

"You've never lost a kid, Bob," Alley Garris pointed out. "Sam seems fine…it's her husband who has me worried."

There was a melancholy silence in the hold. Most of the individuals had the uneasy feeling that they would never see the Ambroses again, but they dispelled their troubling thoughts and focused on the present. "What's our game plan?" Waters broke the silence.

"We have to warn HighCom about the Insurrectionist invasion fleets," Tyrone explained, "But they probably already know about them by now, so we'll turn over Polaris's data which he 'collected' from the Archives building."

"We'll also have to be sure that they first glean the locations of the Magistarium worlds," Angiers pointed out. "Once the initial threat is repulsed, the fleets will have to strike at them right where it hurts, otherwise they'll just keep on coming back."

"Alright, that's enough chitchat for today," Mr. Peruski grunted, interrupting the conversation. "It's gonna take us two weeks to get back to Earth, so I have an appointment with a cryo-tube."

Murmurs of assent and agreement fluttered throughout the hold as everyone else shuffled towards the ladder.

The phantom's engines began to hum as they fired up, propelling the dropship up into the sky. Eventually, the blue sky visible through the cockpit window gave way to the star-sprinkled void of space. "Beginning preparations for slipstream jump," Polaris reported, his detective avatar vanishing as he immersed himself into the ship's systems completely.

"Well, looks like you're off the hook," Tyrone said to Collins as the journalist moved to climb the ladder into the upper hold after everyone else had gone.

Collins let out a sigh, his shoulders slumping a bit. "Part of me wishes that she just kill me and get it over with."

Tyrone shrugged, seeing Collins's point. "She's probably had enough of death for now," the Spartan surmised.

"I guess you're right…God, I..." Collins let out a pained breath, leaning against the ladder. He took a cloth out of his pocket and mopped his brow, which had begun to sweat profusely. "I have family in New York, you know. My sister is married with three children…the Insurrectionists broke into my home one night, led by one of their officials, and they forced me at gunpoint to comply. I had to help them with planning the Ambrose boy's abduction; they threatened to kill me and my sister's family if I didn't cooperate…and I did. I helped the bastards, and look what's become of my actions. An innocent child is dead, Tyrone, _dead_!"

Tyrone was at a loss for words. He had known about the journalist's forced collaboration with the Insurrectionists, but he had never considered that there had been more finite details to the ordeal. "Why haven't you said anything about this before?"

"Why should I make excuses for what I did?" Collins murmured. "I may have protected my sister's family, but did I ever try to stop the kidnappers? Did I ever go to the police, the military? There were so many opportunities, so many chances I could have taken…I was too much of a fucking coward, and now Robin Ambrose is dead because of that."

"Well," Tyrone began to answer, choosing his words carefully. "Well, there's nothing you can do to change the past. You feel guilty as all get-out, and you damn well should, but you still can't change it. Your only option now lies in the future, and you'll have plenty of time—two weeks—to think it over in the cryo-tube. Now, get."

Collins nodded numbly and climbed the ladder into the upper hold, vanishing from sight, leaving Tyrone alone in the main hold.

The rushing noise of a slipspace jump reverberated through the ship. It passed just as quickly as it had come, replaced with the identical, blank silence of slipstream space.

Polaris shimmered into existence next to Tyrone's head as the dark-skinned Spartan sat down wearily on one of the benches set into the wall.

"What a waste, Polaris," Tyrone muttered quietly, even though the AI could still hear every word he said perfectly. "Jesus Christ, what a waste…"

"The boy or his parents?"

"Both," Tyrone answered.

"I believe I understand," Polaris interjected, drawing upon his intricate understanding and experience with human emotion. "The Ambroses were created for the Great War, their purpose was to fight and kill, nothing more. Their son is what tied them to the normal world after the war ended, and now that their son is dead, they have much less to live for than they did before."

Tyrone grunted glumly. "That about sums it up...I'd have stopped them myself, but Sam's fast and deadly as hell in hand-to-hand… They probably would have endangered us in the future if I had forced them to come with us, but that doesn't make me feel any better, not one bit."

The large Spartan was silent for several more minutes before he let out another sigh and stood up. "Well, I better turn in."

"That would be advisable," Polaris replied evenly.

"Well, on the bright side," Tyrone mused as he climbed up into the upper hold, "If these invasion Fleets really are as big of a threat as we think they are, I'll probably get to see the others soon."

"Others?" Polaris cocked a virtual eyebrow, not following.

"Not counting Alex and Sam, there are twenty-nine other Spartans from my old company who survived the war, living out there in the Outer Colonies. I doubt the UNSC would consider fighting these aliens without them."

"Hm…well, that certainly sounds plausible."

Tyrone one of the walked over to one of the three open cryo-tubes lining the walls of the upper hold and quickly undressed, lying down on the form-fitting gel bed. "I _really_ can't wait until the R&D pukes can start making those slipspace pods the Forerunners had…sure would beat these icy pieces of crap…"

"Jubilant until the end, as always," Polaris chuckled as Tyrone got situated. The smart AI interfaced with the controls of the cryo-pod and sealed it, beginning the freezing process. "Pleasant dreams."

Tyrone had just enough time to roll his eyes and consider how his dreams would be anything _but_ pleasant before the tube sealed completely. There was a rushing feeling followed up for a split-second by a sense of extreme cold, then darkness.


	24. Chapter 23: Playing With the Devil

Chapter Twenty-Three: Playing With the Devil

**1925 Hours, September 9, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys City, Terra Firma**

Clouds had been in the sky for days now, steadily thickening and darkening, as if preparing to break and unleash nature's fury on the area. They had yet to do so, but tiny raindrops were beginning to fall from the sky, evaporating not long after they hit the ground.

The moment Sam had reached the rooftop of the clothing shop which the phantom had dropped them off on, she laid her unconscious husband out under a canopy and sat next to him, waiting patiently for him to stir.

The indigo column of light which was the phantom's grav-lift had vanished, making the phantom completely invisible. The quiet hum of its engines was heard briefly as it moved away, no doubt heading off-planet to return to UNSC space.

Sam waited over six hours for Alex to wake up, even taking a small nap of her own to pass the time. _Must have hit him harder than I thought_…she thought to herself.

The sun was completely obscured behind the veil of dark gray and black storm clouds, so Sam could only tell that it was evening by the fading ambient daylight. There had been something of a rush hour as people returned to their homes after their workdays ended, but that had passed. The streets were still populated, but there was a much more slow and relaxed atmosphere about them.

Alex let out a mumbled groan as he stirred. He moved his head slightly and cracked open his eyes, taking in his surroundings. He saw Sam and gave a slightly irritated sigh. He slowly sat up and rested back against the wall which he had been lying alongside. He gingerly cradled the back of his head where Sam had hit him and turned to look his wife in the eyes.

Blue eyes met green.

"I guess I should have expected that," he rasped. "But did you really have to hit me _that_ hard? Feels like someone broke a freakin' _crowbar_ over my skull…"

"Well, it would have been much more painful if you had tried to resist," Sam shrugged, "so I think there's a lot less to complain about."

Alex closed his eyes and rested his head back, getting his bearings and getting ready to move. "I'm sorry for trying to make you stay behind," he murmured. "He was _our_ son, not just mine…"

Sam extended a hand to her husband and he took it, pulling himself to his feet. "We should get going. It'll be dark soon, and we don't want to get caught outside."

The Ambroses walked over to the edge of the roof and, after making sure that no one was looking, jumped off. They fell down two stories, a toddler's leap for a Spartan, and landed gracefully with little to no sound. They dusted themselves off and walked out of the alley and onto the sidewalk.

The road they were on was clearly a main road, as it had four large lanes, but it was sparsely packed at this time of night. The city-state of Tethys was clearly not akin to UNSC cities like New York, Côte d'Azur, or Ainsdell. In UNSC cities, once the waking world went to sleep, a whole new world woke up for the night. Not quite true here. Here, people barely seemed to socialize at all, let alone stay out late. Once the workday ended, the city was, for all intents and purposes, truly asleep.

The buildings on this street and in the rest of this general district of the city were shabby, ramshackle structures. Not quite as dilapidated as the South Mire Ghetto, the ghetto which the Ambroses had been through several days ago when they were trying to rescue their son, but certainly nowhere near a comfortable habitat.

The miniscule raindrops grew slightly larger, big enough to start getting the ground wet, but the pedestrians trudging their way down the sidewalks took no notice.

"Where are we headed?" Alex muttered, eyeing the shabby buildings on both sides of the road.

"This looks like one of Tethys's slums," Sam observed. "There's bound to be an abandoned building somewhere where we can sack out for a while."

The two Spartans continued down the sidewalk for the next fifteen minutes. The walk was uneventful. Pedestrians passed by without saying a word, vehicles grew less and less present until the street was virtually empty. The rain intensified slightly more, becoming a light sprinkle, but the lifeless, zombie-like people on the streets still paid no heed.

In a way, the dreary weather and rain suited the city; Sam could not really picture this place ever being sunny or nice. She was right to a degree; the Tethys metropolis, which covered a vast amount of the Tethys Region—the only region on Nemesis III to share the name of its largest city—had a peculiar climate. Polaris, in one of his talkative bouts, had mentioned that something about the topographical makeup of the land around the city of Tethys made the area which the huge city was situated in the subject of perpetual rain. It was only once every few dozen blue moons when Tethys would have a sunny day.

Alex and Sam came up to another intersection and immediately crossed it, not bothering to check for traffic. They had been walking for over twenty minutes without finding a suitable living space. It wasn't until now that Fate decided to throw some interest in their general direction.

A man in a tweed jacket wearing half-moon spectacles and a large caddy hat which cast a shadow over his face was waiting at the corner of the next intersection, leaning back on the wall and casually smoking a pipe.

Although he seemed care-free and indifferent, Alex and Sam could tell from his subtle twitches, jumpy movements, and darting glances that he was actually agitated, nervous about something.

By the time the Ambroses had reached the intersection, walking up next to a grizzled old man sitting at the foot of the wall, wrapped up in a tattered windbreaker, the question of why the man in the tweed jacket was nervous had been answered.

Another man had crossed the street and approached Tweed Jacket. This new arrival was clad in a long, black overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat to deflect the rain. He was flanked by two other similarly dressed men, both of them looking no more friendly than their leader.

Sam must have been staring because the grimy old man sitting on the ground cleared his throat and cautioned her. "Watch yerself, missy, men like 'em black-coaters ain't men you want to be stickin' yer business into," the old man warned.

"Why, who are they?" Sam asked, now thoroughly interested in the exchange going on between the four men across the street. The three men in overcoats turned around and walked off down the way they had come, leaving Tweed Jacket standing alone in his spot by the corner, looking jittery and startled. He stared off into space for a few moments before coming back to his senses and hurrying off.

"They're some o' Blackmoore's goons. Not ordinary street thugs, mind you, I'm talking experienced, hard-assed sons of bitches. You mess with Blackmoore, your life expectancy's gonna be measured in hours 'stead of years."

"You're saying that they're mobsters?" Sam could barely suppress a laugh.

"Mm-hmm, and don't you forget it neither," the old man said vehemently, spitting on the ground for emphasis. "Blackmoore's group ain't a group o' misguided, psychotic misfits; they're professionals. If they weren't, the high 'n mighty Magistrate would've shut 'em down years ago. They got holdings and men throughout the entire city. Be careful around 'em."

"Who were they talking to?" Sam asked next.

"Dunno," the old man shrugged, drawing his coat about himself tighter as the wind began to pick up. "Prolly one o' Blackmoore's contacts or informants…he's always there at that spot every day, talkin' to them same fellas in the black overcoats. Poor bastard prolly wants to get a new job, but it ain't that simple when you get tied up with Blackmoore."

"Are there any abandoned buildings around here where no one lives or operates anymore?" Alex spoke up, seeing a way to make use of this old man who seemed so knowledgeable of his surroundings.

"Mm-hmm," the old man nodded. "Next block up, there's an old pawnshop on the other side of the street. Ain't nobody been in there for six years."

"Thank you," Alex gave the old man a polite nod and steered Sam away, setting off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.

"What was that about?" Sam said to her husband as they fast-paced their way down the next block. The rain was now coming down at a steady rate, creating large puddles in the streets and sidewalk. Small mini-streams of water flowed down the road and into the sewer drains as the puddles grew.

"We're supposed to be invisible here, Sam," Alex hissed. "After what happened at Farseer Epsilon and the Archives, our images are probably circulating through their agencies. We can't make any friends here. If people know about us, sooner or later the Magistrate will too."

Sam sighed wearily. "Alright, Mr. Anti-Social, have it your way, but I still don't think talking to a harmless old man is going to cause the universe to explode."

The Ambroses reached the abandoned pawnshop the old man had mentioned a few minutes later. It was a small, two-story tall setup, nothing special about it; just a perfectly square-shaped hunk of shabby gray drywall set in the middle of an urban wasteland. One grain of sand in a beach.

Alex pushed open the pawnshop's door and walked inside, observing the former shop's interior. The walls were once white, but now they were a yellowed hue with brownish-red spots all over the place, clear signs of neglect. The store shelves were nothing more than rubble, littering the floor along with dusty old objects and souvenirs. Alex made his way over to the counter and picked up a glossy poster, turning it over and blowing away the layer of dust obscuring its image.

The blue-eyed Spartan grunted and tore the poster, which was an anti-UNSC propaganda rendering, in half, tossing the two pieces away behind him.

"Well, it's not exactly home…" Sam said as she looked around at the shop's interior, always trying to find or create the silver lining. "It'll do us for now."

Alex grunted again, giving an indifferent shrug. "Could be a lot worse. Come on, let's check the upstairs."

The upper floor proved to be slightly better than its counterpart on the ground. There were several storage rooms and what appeared to be a bedroom, probably where the pawnshop's previous owner had lived before he had abandoned the shop for whatever reason.

The bedroom's walls were in better condition than the ones downstairs; they were still a shade of off-white rather than the discolored hue of decay. A lumpy bed occupied the far wall, situated in front of a normal-sized window overlooking the street. Other than the bed, a grimy mirror set on the wall to the right, and an empty dresser, the room was empty.

"This should do us nicely," Sam sounded somewhat satisfied by the bedroom. "Kind of boring looking…but at least it's not collapsing all around us."

"That's a bonus," Alex agreed. He took off the long, black trench coat which he had taken from the phantom and laid it out on the bed. Concealed in the inside of the overcoat were the components of his sniper rifle. It had been necessary to conceal it; walking down the street in completely hostile territory with a sniper rifle only slightly shorter than himself was not the best way to keep out of the radar.

Alex took out the pieces of his prized rifle and reassembled them in no more than four seconds, comforting himself with the familiar feel of the trigger guard and stock, the weight against his shoulders.

"So what happens now?" Sam asked the question which she had not asked in the phantom. "I'm here to keep you from devolving into a revenge-obsessed maniac, but you're supposed to be a revenge-obsessed maniac with a plan which extends beyond finding a place to sleep."

"I have nothing solid yet," Alex admitted. "But…well, I know what we have to do…and I think…well, honestly, I intend to hunt down and kill the one who took Robin, don't get me wrong, but what I need to do the most is find the Illuminati."

"Changing your plan already?" Sam cocked an eyebrow, sitting down next to her husband.

"No, just adding to it," Alex corrected. "Putting a round into the High Chancellor's head is nigh-impossible, and assassinating some high-ranking official will cause a temporary stir, but nothing more. But…the forward invasion forces have been sent to UNSC space already, but the main fleets are still here. Once they leave, all that will be left here are the dregs, the ones not good enough to fight the UNSC. The Illuminati will never get another chance to strike. If they attack at the right moment; after the fleets are gone and in slipspace along with most the Magisterial Army, the Magistarium will be taken by surprise and swept away."

"What about the Paladins; they'll all still be here."

"I didn't say it would be bloodless," Alex replied evenly, his mind deep in thought. He shook his head and returned to the present. "There's no way we're going to find the Illuminati ourselves, nor can we find out who killed our son by ourselves. We're going to need help from certain people who I'm certain will have connections…"

"And who might they be?"

"I have a plan…but you aren't going to like it," Alex warned.

"I won't?" Sam didn't sound too surprised. She had had her fill of Alex's crazy plans when they were teenagers during the war and she hadn't liked any of them one bit; why should now be any different?

Alex bared his teeth in a malevolent grin. "Not one bit."

* * *

The rain had neither intensified nor subsided since yesterday. The steady pattering of nature's shower continued to fall on Tethys with no end to it in sight. The citizens of the metropolis had lived their entire lives under the rain clouds of the Tethys region and as such were not fazed by a little sprinkle. They all went to work in the morning and returned to their homes in the evening. The only difference was that they simply bore umbrellas to keep themselves somewhat dry.

The main avenue running through the slum was the exact same as it had been yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. However, had someone cared enough to pay closer attention, which no one did nor had any reason to do so, they might have noticed that the shady figure in the tweed jacket who was always waiting at the same corner every day was not quite the same. His five-o-clock shadow was gone, replaced by a clean shaven jaw, his eyes had become a much harsher shade of blue, and he was shorter than he had been the day before.

John Mansfield had slipped into something of a routine for the past week. Every day after his usual morning afternoon assignments and odd jobs, he was always supposed to meet the informant at the corner of 115th and Rigley. He had done so without fail or complication for many days now and so, when he saw the familiar form of his informant clad in the usual tweed jacket, he did not bother to check the whole place again. Doing so cost time and effort, and Mansfield wasn't in the mood to spend either, and as such he was completely surprised when the informant turned out to be anyone but the informant.

"You work for Mr. Blackmoore, correct?" the man in the tweed jacket took off the caddy hat and the jacket, revealing himself. He was a smaller, thinly-built man of around twenty-eight, pale face, freckles, blue eyes. This was definitely _not_ the informant.

Mansfield's hand instantly flashed into his overcoat and drew out a silenced berretta, aiming it at the stranger's heart. "You had better start talking, pal. State your identity and purpose."

"I can assure you there is no need for these…unpleasantries…" the stranger began to speak in a calm tone, not seeming bothered in the least bit by the weapon threatening his life. "I wish to speak to Mr. Blackmoore."

"What have you done with the owner of that tweed jacket you had on?" Mansfield demanded.

"Nothing permanent; he should wake up in an hour or two," Alex sighed dismissively, quickly getting back on topic. "I wish to speak to Mr. Blackmoore."

"Mr. Blackmoore does not grant audience to every stranger on the streets who desires to 'speak' with him," Mansfield said quietly, cocking his pistol and pressing it to Alex's chest. "Now, how about we discuss reasons why I _shouldn't_ make you a memory right here and now for disrupting my operations?"

Alex said nothing. Instead, faster than lightning, he grabbed the pistol out of Mansfield's hands and effortlessly bent the barrel backwards. "I need information which Mr. Blackmoore possesses, and I am _not_ a man who enjoys being refused."

The other two men let out surprised yelps and grunts, drawing their own weapons and aiming them square at Alex's face. The Spartan ignored them, focusing only on the man in the center.

Mansfield seemed to seriously think it over. "Mm-hmm…I suppose that could be arranged…what would be in it for us if you got your information?"

"I am a man of extremely unique talents, as I have just demonstrated. I'm sure you can find a use for them in exchange for what I need."

Mansfield nodded, deep in thought. He seemed to want nothing more than to simply get as far away from this stranger as possible, but he also knew that this man could represent a golden opportunity for his employer. "Tomorrow, this corner, midnight. We will pick you up. I cannot speak for Mr. Blackmoore, however," Mansfield warned. "If he does not like what you have to offer, you may find yourself in an extremely unfavorable situation."

Alex shrugged. "Your friends will be the latest in an extremely long list of individuals who have _tried_ to kill me in the past," the blue-eyed Spartan emphasized 'tried'. " And notice that I am still here. That being said, I honestly don't think we will run into any…rough patches."

"Very well," Mansfield backed away. "Watch your back; you never know when the Paladins decide to go prowling around the area."

And with that, the three men were gone, leaving Alex alone on the sidewalk.

"Well, all things considered, I think it went pretty well," he called up to the rooftop above him.

Sam, who had been covering him the whole time with a BR-55, poked her head over the edge, quickly swinging herself over the side and dropping down to the pavement. "Define 'well', for me, I couldn't hear a thing. 'Well' as in you've just successfully negotiated a meeting with who appears to be the most dangerous man in the city other than the Magisterial Governor?"

"Yeah, that about sums it up."

Sam rolled her eyes to the dark and cloudy heavens. "Great."


	25. Chapter 24: Cabin Fever

Chapter Twenty-Four: Cabin Fever

**2325 Hours, September 9, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region**

Robin Ambrose was, for lack of a better adjective, bored as hell. A casual onlooker might have been surprised; Robin had so many reasons _not_ to be bored. He had been kidnapped, he had endured several days of relentless torture, escaped from an inescapable government prison, and was currently hiding out with two young members of a powerful group of separatists in the middle of a dangerous city filled to the brim with enemies, while being cut off from any and all possible help; that more than anything should have been enough to keep him from becoming bored.

But, deep down inside, he was still a twelve-year-old boy at heart, and when a twelve-year-old is forced to stay in the same room for over four days, boredom ensues.

Robin, Blaze, and Jess had been forced to take refuge in one of the Illuminati safehouses. This particular one was a bunker-like structure built below the ruins of a former metal factory. The Magisterial Guardsmen and the Paladins who had responded to the destruction of the Cruciamentum had been combing through the entire ghetto for the escapees ever since, but judging from the fact that the safehouse's door still had yet to be blown in, followed by shouting soldiers, they had yet to find anything.

Robin had tried reading one of the tattered old books sitting on a shelf in the corner, but gave up before he reached page ten; the print was too small and he had a headache the size of Texas. To be fair, he had been dead asleep for the first three days straight, making up for all of the sleep which he had lost in the Cruciamentum. Sleeping was always difficult when you were strapped down to a table with electricity coursing through your body.

Finally, after being awake and doing absolutely nothing ever since earlier in the morning, Robin had had it. He threw the book down onto the couch which he was lounging on, springing to his feet. "I need some air," he declared, marching purposefully towards the door.

"You can't go out there," Jess protested, planting herself in between the twelve-year-old and the door.

"Just for a minute, I won't leave the boiler room," Robin brushed past the blond-haired girl and unlatched the heavy door, swinging it open as easily as if it were a feather. "If I stay cooped up in here for another minute, I might go crazy and accidentally blow something up." He swung the door back closed and sealed it, leaving Jess alone.

Well, not quite alone.

A light chuckle filled the room, brightening up the silence. "Well, the great Jessica Flanagan has just been-"

"Oh can it, cripple-boy," Jess grumbled, returning to her old spot on her unkempt cot.

Two cots down, Blaze opened his eyes and rolled over onto his side, wincing as he brushed his bandaged bullet wounds. "First time I gain complete consciousness since I got shot, and _that's_ the best you can come up with? 'Can it, cripple-boy?' Really?"

"Alright," Jess sighed, "How're you holding up, old friend? There, how was that? Better?"

"Yeah, that was better. Thank you," Blaze said in a sarcastic voice. He moved to get into a more comfortable position, gripping his bandages again. "Now that you mention it, the wounds have been hurting a bit…I guess it's normal though."

"What were you saying?"

"Oh, nothing," a wry smile crept back over Blaze's face. "I just thought it was funny how the kid walked right past without losing any hairs over it," the thirteen-year-old let out another laugh, his mind drifting back to his earlier experiences fighting with the Illuminati. "I remember when that one new kid in your team, Carter I think his name was, did the exact same thing last year during one of our training ops with Captain Tupolov's company outside of Portus Illuminatus, on the slopes of Mount Mazama. He got fed up with Nathan's training regimen and just up and tried to leave. You gave him a few good ones across the face for desertion…but then this kid here ignores you, blows right by you, and you just stood gawking there like a fairy threw dust in your face."

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Stop the superhuman Spartan-kid with a shove?" the Illuminati girl sighed again, resting her head back on her pillow. "If the perimeter sensors so much as blip, I'll go out there myself and sedate him…that should keep him still."

Jess closed her eyes and let out another breath, forcing herself to relax. Robin wasn't the only one to be affected by the long-term confinement; it was getting to Jess too. The difference was that while Robin was bored out of his mind, it was putting Jess increasingly on edge, as every additional minute spent in the safehouse was a greater chance that a Guardsman might stumble upon them accidentally.

Jess opened a single eye, noticing that Blaze was still grinning at her. "What?" she demanded.

"Hm?" Blaze's expression didn't change.

"You're giving me your 'Oh hey, look at me, I know something embarrassing that you don't! Ha-ha, I'm so witty and superior' stare."

"Really?" Blaze made a face. "I rather thought it was more my 'I was lying awake for the past fifteen minutes and saw you staring at the kid more than at your book' stare."

"God, you're impossible!" Jess sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, resting her chin on her arms. "Did I ever make a big deal of it every time _you_ looked at a girl like that? No, I didn't, so get off my back."

Blaze wasn't convinced. "That's because I _always_ do that. Can't help it. You on the other hand…you don't start becoming familiar with most guys until two or three years after first contact, and yet you're already flirting with this kid after knowing him for only a day. I think-"

"Okay, okay, I think he's cute!" Jess threw up her hands in mock surrender, standing up and pacing around her cot agitatedly for a second before sitting back down on the one next to Blaze's. "Honestly, I'm just trying to figure him out," she explained. "I mean, even our civilians have been hearing stories about the Magistarium's plan to kidnap an individual from the UNSC and use him in their plans with the Tirque to dominate the Orion Arm. What we knew along with Colonel Robertson's Spec Ops was that this individual was a child…and now here he is. For being someone so important to the Magistarium, for being someone who would play such a pivotal role in their plans…well, he looks like any other normal kid to me."

Blaze opened his mouth to reply, but before he could say anything a small trickle of blood seeped out the corner of his mouth, running down his face and dripping off his chin. He caught the blood with his hands, a confused look on his face. "This doesn't look good…" he mumbled.

Jess was at his side in a heartbeat, putting a hand on his forehead and checking his vitals. "Are you feeling alright? What's wrong?"

"I…I don't know…" Blaze murmured almost too quietly to hear, his light Irish accent becoming more pronounced as he spoke. "They….they're hurting…"

The thirteen-year-old boy was beginning to sweat profusely, his bare torso and hair becoming slick with perspiration. He clasped his bandages again, this time letting out a pained cry, loud and sudden enough to make Jess almost jump. His eyes dulled a little bit, becoming feverish. His hand snapped out suddenly and clamped over Jess's forearm in a vice-like grip. He dragged her close and began whispering and yammering in gibberish, speaking quickly and desperately, but unintelligibly.

The safehouse door flew open and Robin, who had heard the commotion from outside, hurried into the room, sealing the entrance behind him. "What the hell?!"

"Restrain him!" Jess shouted at Robin, gesturing to Blaze, who had begun to convulse violently.

The fair-haired twelve-year-old reacted without any hesitation. He sprinted over to the table and gently pried Blaze's fingers off of Jess's arm, then held the older boy down onto the bed so that he would not injure himself further.

Jess, now free, hurried over to the medical station, opening a drawer and pulling out a syringe filled with a clear solution. She held the syringe up to the light and spurted a drop out; making sure the needle was operational. She then crossed over to cot and leaned over her old friend. "Hold him still, or the needle will break off inside of him," she ordered.

Robin practically sat on top of Blaze to keep him from thrashing, holding his arm still enough for Jess to slide it in and inject the sedative into Blaze's system.

Almost instantly, the older boy calmed down and fell asleep, breathing loudly through parted lips.

Jess pulled a tissue from her pocket and mopped up the blood which had come out of Blaze's mouth, then wiped the sweat off his forehead before throwing the tissue away.

"What happened?" Robin asked finally after the situation cooled down.

"No idea," Jess replied. "He was up and talking…doing fine and…and then he just started to go haywire," she explained as she undid the bandages covering Blaze's bullet wounds. "He was complaining about his wounds a few times, though…maybe-"

"Holy crap…" Robin whispered in revulsion as Jess pulled off the bandages.

Under the bandages, the three bullet wounds were anything but partially healed scars. A spider web of green had spread out from the wounds, extending to nearly half of Blaze's abdomen. His skin and face had gone pale as a ghost and his heart began to slow.

"Shit…" Jess murmured, "Those bullets must have been laced."

"Laced? With what?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?"

"Why wasn't he going berserk until now?"

Jess shrugged, returning to the medical station and concocting a second shot for her friend to help temporarily contain the infection of whatever was spreading from the bullet wounds. "It looks like a virus-spread strain; we've dealt with them before, but this strain is…it's…well, I've never seen it before. It has to be a slow-acting strain; it needs to fight it out with his immune system for a little while before its symptoms start to show."

Robin understood maybe half of what Jess said, but he got the gist of it. "Will he live?" he asked, getting right to the point.

Jess couldn't answer. "If we don't get to Portus Illuminatus soon, then no, he won't."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?!" Robin straightened up and moved for the door. "Let's get moving!"

"It's not that simple," Jess sighed, collapsing back down onto her cot, rubbing the curve of her nose wearily. "We have to wait for confirmation from Gerald before proceeding. He's had to confer with the Illuminatus and the Council and secure an approval for your cooperation with us. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's been procedures such as that which have kept us alive for this long, and they take some time. Until-"

As if on cue, the communications console gave out an audible beep, interrupting Robin and Jess and catching their attention.

"Well speak of the devil…" Jess rose and crossed over to the console, activating the COM.

"Hello? Jess, are you there?" a jovial, normally-cheery now-weary voice issued from the console. "It's Gerald, please respond, over."

"It's me," Jess responded over the COM. "Tell me something good, Gerald, something _really_ good."

"You got your green light, Jess," Gerald said. "You can bring the Ambrose boy home with you."

"Good stuff," Jess nodded, gesturing for Robin to stand up and get prepared.

"Jess, before you go," Gerald continued before Jess could shut down the console. "Off the records…how's Blaze doing? You told me he was shot four days ago."

"Not good," was all Jess said in reply. "Whether or not he lives depends on how fast you can get us out of here."

"Well, I've been doing this job for twenty years now; I'm no incompetent," Gerald retorted. "Just don't get yourselves killed in the city. One more thing…listen to this privately, it's for your ears only," Gerald let out an audible sigh, obviously loathing what he had to say next. Jess pulled out an ear-node and screwed it into her ear, setting the COM so that it would transmit only through the node, making her the only one who could hear what Gerald had to say. "The Ambrose boy's safety is much more important than Blaze's life," Gerald continued, speaking directly into Jess's ear. "Do everything you can to get both of them to me safely, but if you are forced to make a choice, you must leave Blaze if you have to…if the Ambrose boy is recaptured, then the UNSC is doomed, and we will be too. That being said…" Gerald sighed again, getting to the ugly, murky bottom of what he had to say. "If the Ambrose boy is ever, at any point in time, about to fall back into enemy hands, and if there is absolutely _nothing_ you can do to prevent it from happening…we cannot allow him to be recaptured; you'll have to kill him, Jess. You'll have to kill him."

Jess sucked in a sharp breath, working her jaw in disbelief. "Gerald, you _know_ I can't do that," she hissed.

"You won't have a choice," Gerald declared. "Be careful out there and make sure that you never have to execute that order. We're all relying on you, Jess. See you soon. Gerald out."

The COM went dead.

"What's the matter; you look like you've seen a ghost," Robin chuckled, raising an eyebrow at Jess, who had paled a tad bit during her conversation on the COM.

"We're moving out," Jess said, grabbing her black sweatshirt and pulling it on over her white T-shirt. She lifted up the pillow on her cot and picked up the small pistol which she had kept underneath. It was a silenced berretta, small and easily concealable. She slipped it under her sweatshirt, along with several first-aid necessities from the medical station. "Need to teach you how to shoot one of these days…" she murmured. "You're the strong one, grab Blaze and carry him. Be careful with him, his body won't fare well from a beating."

Robin nodded, crossing over to Blaze's cot. He leaned down and effortlessly lifted the thirteen-year-old up and over his shoulder. He spread his legs, getting a good balance, and followed Jess up to the door.

There was a slight thunk as Jess unlatched the entrance. The boiler/door swung open, revealing the empty boiler room and the hallway beyond, almost beckoning to the three children.

Jess and Robin left the safehouse, sealing the entrance behind them, and heading into the hallway. They climbed up the flight of stairs to the ground level, emerging into the factory floor, or what was left of it. Decades of neglect and the elements had reduced the metal factory to a half-building, half-rubble structure.

Jess led Robin up to the broken-down entrance of the factory, getting ready to hit the streets. "You ready?" she asked.

"Do I have a choice?" Robin retorted.

"No. You don't." _And neither do I_.


	26. Chapter 25: Crossing the Mire

Chapter Twenty-Five: Crossing the Mire

**0012 Hours, September 10, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region**

The moment Robin and Jess set foot in the streets of the South Mire Ghetto, the rules changed. Same game; keeping the hell away from the Magisterial forces combing through the ghetto, but different rules. Instead of hiding and crossing their fingers, Robin and Jess were now out in the open. Their destinies were now back in their own hands. At the same time, however, time was on the Magistarium's side. If Jess and Robin took too long to escape Mire City, Blaze would die. They would have to rush, and rushing, more than anything, could cause huge mistakes and setbacks. They would have to be ever vigilant.

Jess stepped out of the beaten-down metal factory first, quickly sweeping her gaze over the street. "Clear," she whispered.

Robin, bearing a comatose Blaze on his shoulder, followed, carefully stepping down onto the sidewalk.

"This way," Jess began to move off to the left, keeping her head low and her eyes open and alert.

Although Robin had no training in the dark, he had always been able to see in even the blackest of rooms because of his augmented retinas. It was much more liberating and practical than night-vision goggles; the colors were different to Robin than they were in the daylight, but the whole world was not green. "Where are we headed?" he asked.

"Less talking, more following," Jess shot back as they reached an intersection. She stuck her head out around the corner and took a quick peek before moving on. "You'd probably turn around on the spot if I told you anyway."

"Try me."

Jess let out a whispered chuckle, stepping over a pile of old, crumbled bricks and mortar, one of the millions littering the streets of the abandoned ghetto. "Nice try, but you're gonna have to wait. No, this way," she quickly added as Robin moved to continue down the sidewalk. "We have to make a stop."

Jess led Robin across the street and down through a thin, nigh-invisible alleyway running between two burned-down shops. The two children were forced to stop several times and seek alternate routes via other back alleys to circumvent rubble blockages, or simply pause to climb over them. It was like a maze, a labyrinth of walkways.

The South Mire Ghetto was the oldest part of the city, built before the more-civilized and organized remainder of the city. The streets in the ghetto were far from a perfect grid as was common in most urban areas. Some streets ran straight, others curved, some doubled back, and others went in circles. The ghetto was a jumble, a huge mess, and probably one of the dozens of reasons why it was abandoned by the populace of Mire City. Because of the tangled layout of the ghetto, one could stick to the back alleys for several blocks at a time without ever setting foot on a main road.

Jess had obviously done her homework on the layout of the streets during the almost month she had been in the ghetto, waiting for Blaze to make his escape. She wove her way through the labyrinthine alleys, making turns and alternate routes as she went. Robin gave up trying to remember which way he had come as they forged their way deeper into the alleyways, instead simply concentrating on not dropping Blaze or tripping.

The maze of alleyways ended almost as abruptly as it had begun. Robin found himself stepping down onto sidewalk once more, only to be forced back into the alley with a sharp shove.

"Patrol! Get back!" Jess hissed, pushing Robin down to the ground and hiding among the rubbish clogging the alleyway's entrance.

Turns out that not one, but _three_ teams of Guardsmen were on that particular street, converging right by the alleyway where Jess and Robin were hiding. As the soldiers all mingled and conversed in the road, three uniformed individuals—obviously the squad leaders—met barely two feet away from Robin's hiding place.

"Worthless waste of time, that's all this is," one of the sergeants, a tall, black-haired man with a scraggly beard, growled, spitting on the ground for emphasis. He reached into his pocket and drew out a lighter, lighting up a cigarette, which he began to smoke with slow, deliberate puffs.

"Be careful of where you say that and to whom you say it to," another of the squad leaders cautioned. "But you are right nonetheless."

The first sergeant grunted. "The Main Invasion is coming up, and the higher-ups have us combing this Godforsaken dump for a couple of kids. Tell me what wrong you see in that picture, tell me."

"The Magistrate would not have ordered General Hessler to do this unless they had a sufficient reason," the third man, who had remained silent until now, spoke up.

"Is that so?" the first squad leader snorted. "Are you suggesting that the security and power of the Magistarium is threatened by these kids?"

"Yes," the third sergeant replied simply. "Why, you ask? Because Special Operations is involved, along with the Paladins. Surely you've noticed them."

"He's right, there," the second sergeant admitted. "Paladins are crawling all over the place. I also saw Commissar Brandt from Captain Arnoll's company talking with O'Riley, that Special Ops guy who got promoted to a high position in some secret Special Forces unit. Whatever's with these kids, it's something big."

"Well, it's been over four days since the Cruciamentum blew up," the first man pointed out. "What's there to say that they haven't escaped already?"

"You know how we spent all yesterday rigging the main roads with motion detectors? Well, one of the ones set on a street a few blocks over went off less than fifteen minutes ago," the third sergeant explained. "They must have just come out of hiding, thinking we're all gone."

The first squad leader grunted again, plucking his cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. "Well, they had better _pray_ that I don't get 'em…wasting our time like this, they deserve to be strung up."

"Come, we should continue our patrols before an officer finds us fraternizing," the second sergeant suggested, ending the conversation.

The other two men murmured in agreement and broke up, hollering at their squads to reform and move back out.

Only when they vanished from view did Robin raise his head, peeking around the corners and squinting against the darkness. "They're gone."

"Your augmentations; they give you enhanced night vision?" Jess guessed, getting to her feet and dusting herself off.

"Mm-hmm," Robin hummed, bending down and picking up Blaze, who hadn't moved a muscle since he had been sedated.

"We'll have to stick to the alleyways as much as possible…" Jess said. "If they've got the roads rigged, than we won't be able to get anywhere without having a hundred Guardsmen coming down on us."

Jess and Robin stole across the street and reentered another maze of alleyways, which Jess led the way through. After ten or so minutes of blind sprinting, the two children emerged onto yet another street, but this time Jess went down the sidewalk to the right.

"Is this your stop?" Robin asked.

Jess nodded, stopping in front of another large building; a plastics factory. Stepping inside after his companion, Robin took a wide glance around, taking in his surroundings. This factory building fared a little better than its metal counterpart which the Illuminati safehouse was hidden beneath. This one, while missing most of its roof, still had all of its walls, and its interior was still intact. Half-finished heavy plastic shipping containers were arrayed out on the assembly conveyor belts, abandoned by their makers and forever prevented from fulfilling their original purposes.

"This one'll do nicely," Jess picked out one of the bins, large enough for half a person comfortably. It was lightweight, so Jess was able to carry it without any assistance.

Robin couldn't stay silent any longer. "Alright, what is that for?" he asked forcefully, adjusting his grip on Blaze.

"I let you go outside the safehouse, you owe me some silence," Jess shot back, picking up the bin and lifting it up onto her shoulders. "Come on. We've probably tripped up any motion sensors the bastards have set on this road, so we'll have to hurry."

Robin said nothing more, opting to humor Jess and remain silent. He followed the blond-haired girl out of the plastics factory and onto the streets. He sprinted at a fraction of his full possible speed so as not to blow past Jess, who had human limitations on her speed.

Jess ran all the way down to the next intersection, turning and pounding down the road to the right.

Robin noticed two distinct things as they headed down this new street. The first was a faint siren in the distance, a wailing klaxon which was getting louder and louder as it moved closer. The second was a smell, a scent, an unmistakable odor: sewage.

"The sewer lines in this part of the city are pretty rough!" Jess shouted as they passed through another intersection. "Not as much crap in them yet—they still have the heart of the city to run through—but enough to dissuade anyone from swimming in it…well, _almost_ anyone!"

Jess slowed her pace as they reached their destination; a section of street which had long since collapsed and cleared away, revealing the source of the pungent odor in this area of the ghetto. An open sewer line, easily fifteen to twenty feet across, lay in the sinkhole, the water inside flowing by at an unusually high speed, probably due to the heavy rains the Meillan Region had been experiencing for the past week.

"You're not serious," Robin blurted out, incredulous to the point of frenzy.

"Your cleanliness or your life; choose wisely," Jess shrugged, pulling the shipping container off of her shoulders and dropping it to the ground. She slid down to the bottom of the sinkhole and dropped it into the water, reaching down and holding it in place with a hand.

"Common, the _sewer line_?! Why can't we just-"

"If we were able to simply walk right out of the ghetto, do you really think I'd go to this extreme?!" Jess exclaimed. "Besides, with the rains which hit this area all last week, the pipes are running like rivers; it'll be faster and cleaner than normal."

"But what about Blaze's wounds?! If he gets all that stuff into them, the poison's gonna be the _least_ of his worries!"

"That's what _this_ is for!" Jess shook the container. "Now get the hell over here and drop him in!"

Robin swore quietly to himself, carefully stepping down and joining Jess at the lip of the open running pipe. He unslung Blaze and laid him out on the ground next to Jess, who promptly jumped into the flowing water, shaking her head and wiping her eyes. She kept a firm hand on the container and the pipe wall. "Lower him down, quickly!" she shouted up.

Robin, who was beginning to hear shouts and orders echoing up from further down the street, didn't hesitate. He picked up Blaze and handed him down to Jess, who grabbed hold of him and gently laid him down into the plastic shipping container. "He is gonna owe me _so_ much when he wakes up," she growled.

The unconscious boy murmured unintelligibly and twitched his head at the rough movement, but otherwise remained comatose.

"Your turn, Spartan-boy!" Jess shouted up to Robin.

Robin took one look down the street and, seeing a patrol of Guardsmen jogging in his direction, led by a black-armored Paladin, turned back to the pipe. He took a deep breath and, cursing the universe and everything in it, jumped.

The impact was barely anything, but the concept of what he was landing in made it almost as bad as a fall from a skyscraper. Robin kept his mouth and eyes tightly squeezed shut, holding his nose with one of his hands, until he surfaced once again. "This is what I get," he sighed, "I break through stone-reinforced metal, carry Blaze halfway across the ghetto, get _shot_ at, and my reward is to go swimming in…this," he complained, angry and tired, but still unwilling to use foul profanity.

"World's a bitch, isn't it?" Jess called back, unhindered by such morals. "Now let go and let the current take you!"

The two children let go at the same time, both of them holding onto the container holding Blaze. The current was almost similar to a river current, as the sewers in the ghetto had no restrictions or grating; anything like that had long since turned to rubbish.

Robin soon lost all track of time. He stopped shouting and complaining after several minutes. It was pointless; yelling wouldn't make safety come any sooner. It must have been at least an hour before the pipes began to change. The old, corrugated, green pipes became shinier, smoother gray. The pipe made several abrupt turns, nearly dashing Jess against the wall a few times and giving Robin a good bruise on his arm and forehead.

"How much longer?" the twelve-year-old managed to ask.

"We're definitely at the end of the ghetto…not too much farther."

Jess was right; along with the appearance of the pipe, the contents began to change as well. As the current took them out of the ghetto and into the rest of the city, the populated areas, the smell got much worse and the water became thick with unmentionables.

Eventually, Robin began to relax somewhat, falling deep into thought as the current slowed a bit. He thought about the events of this past month for the first time, about his abduction, about his tormentors, about everything. He considered Illuminati; this mysterious group of separatists fighting against the Magistarium. His fate seemed to be tied in with theirs now. And yet...he had known with the Insurrectionists that they never intended to send him back home, but at the same time the Illuminati didn't seem too inclined to let go of him either...

He shook his head, dispelling those disturbing thoughts and saving them for later, for a time when he could afford to think that way.

He thought about the home he probably would never see for a long time, and he thought of his parents.

_Mom_..._Dad_…_where _are_ you?_ He knew that his parents would not be sitting idly in his house all this time. No, they would have taken action. Perhaps they were on their way now…coming for him…they would never abandon him, not if every demon in Hell stood in their way.

It then occurred to him that because the Illuminati were a highly hidden people, no one would be able to reach them unless they already knew the way. Once Robin reached the Illuminati haven, wherever it was, he would be safe, but at the same time he would be unreachable.

_How will they ever find me then? _He choked back a sob. Crying in a sewer line would require opening his mouth. All the same, his eyes began to sting with salty tears, collecting until they flowed freely down his face.

The macabre raft-ride ended a few minutes later, when the particular pipe the escapees were in had its first grille installed, preventing them from proceeding.

"Grab that ladder!" Jess shouted, snapping Robin out of his self-induced reverie.

The twelve-year-old pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eye and snapped his arm out, grasping the bottom rung of a metal ladder built into the side of the pipe. He hauled himself up with one hand, drawing in the plastic container with the other.

Jess pulled herself around the container and joined Robin on the ladder. She grasped the edge of the container and tipped it, allowing Robin to grab Blaze with his free hand and lift him out. The twelve-year-old slung Blaze back over his shoulder and swung himself out wide, allowing Jess to climb up the ladder past him.

The Illuminati girl did so, climbing up to the top of the ladder and up through the short shaft which lead to street level. She reached the very top of the shaft and reached up, pushing the manhole cover out of the way and climbing out.

Robin was right on her heels, pulling himself and Blaze out of the sewers and replacing the manhole cover behind him. He swayed as he got to his feet, the world spinning all around him. "Excuse me," he moaned, laying Blaze down on the ground before turning around, falling to his knees, and vomiting everything in his stomach out onto the street.

He stood back up once he was done, feeling somewhat better. That was the silver lining of throwing up: once it was over and everything was out, you felt like a new man. The twelve-year-old staggered onto the sidewalk and walked up to a cylindrical yellow object set into the ground. After inspecting the fire hydrant for a few seconds, Robin leaned down and grasped the domed cap, counting to three before heaving back with all his strength.

The cap came free, accompanied by a huge geyser of pressurized water. Robin stepped into the makeshift fountain. He tore off his tattered, now-unwearable shirt and cast it away, allowing the water to clean his skin directly

Jess, biting back a harsh rebuke, instead shrugged and stepped into the geyser as well, cleaning herself off as best she could. Once she was done, Robin did the same for Blaze, although he was careful to avoid getting the bandages directly washed.

Now freezing cold and dripping wet, the clean escapees set off down the sidewalk at a breakneck pace just as the lights were starting to turn on in the residential units around them, turned on by bewildered citizens who were confused as to why an artificial Old Faithful was exploding on their block.

"That was a very careless thing to do, after all we've been through to get this far," Jess broke the silence after another thirty minutes of walking down the pitch-dark, empty street.

"If you had wanted to prance around the town with crap all over yourself, I sure wasn't stopping you," Robin replied with another shrug.

The two of them argued for another few minutes before falling silent once more. They kept on walking and walking and walking until time seemed to melt into one long, slow, muddied stream. Robin would find himself nodding off every few minutes. Other times he would actually wake up while walking with no memory of the last couple of blocks. This cycle repeated for several hours until the first rays of the sun began to show on the eastern horizon.

"Get down!" Jess snapped suddenly, pushing Robin down to the sidewalk, jerking him out of his stupor. A rumbling sound could be heard, drawing closer and closer. "Sounds like a garbage truck…we don't want to get spotted here!"

Sure enough, lights pierced the darkness from around the corner of the last street they had just crossed. The monstrous form of a large, black garbage truck followed. It turned towards the escapees, stopping once to pick up the pile of garbage bags left out on the sidewalk.

"That's our ticket," Jess whispered.

"What?"

"The Northern Safehouse is located in the northern outskirts of the city. We haven't even made it downtown yet; at this rate Blaze will be a memory by the time we get there. That garbage truck is probably heading towards the landfill up north…right where we need to go. Wait for it to pass…"

Robin let out another weary sigh. First sewage, now garbage. Maybe next they'd be forced to hide in a slaughterhouse.

Robin and Jess had to shield their eyes to avoid being blinded by the headlights, but once the truck passed, the red glow of the taillights did little harm.

"Move!" Jess shouted.

The two escapees rose from their hiding places and sprinted after the garbage truck. They kept after it for another whole block until it stopped for another garbage pickup, forcing Robin and Jess to hide once more. Once the man riding on the truck's side finished dumping the garbage bags into the truck's rear compartment, the Robin and Jess broke cover once again and this time managed to leap into the garbage truck's garbage compartment before the truck could pick up significant speed.

Robin made sure Blaze was well-hidden among the hundreds of garbage bags already in the truck before burying himself in deep. He heard Jess say something, but he ignored her, opting instead to lie next to Blaze and pile several bags on top of himself. Ignoring the odor, he allowed his eyes to shut and surrendered to the dark weariness which had been lingering on the edge of his consciousness.

* * *

"Hey! Psst, kid—Robin! Wake up!"

The voice wouldn't leave him alone. Robin murmured something under his breath and turned onto his side, trying to return to his sleep.

A hand came whistling out of nowhere and smacked the side of Robin's head, jerking him awake.

"Get up, this is our stop!" Jess whispered.

Robin opened his eyes, squinting as the sunlight tore into his retinas. It was daytime, late morning at the earliest. The truck was parked on the side of the street, right in front of what appeared to be a small diner. The drivers must have breaked for a meal.

Robin got to his feet and stretched, easing the kinks out of his muscles. He picked up Blaze and waded his way through the sea of garbage to the lip of the compartment. He hooked a foot over the edge and, peeking to make sure no one was on the sidewalk to notice him, swung himself down to the ground. Jess followed, jumping out and landing on her hands and feet.

"Where to from here?" Robin asked after a yawn.

"Down the street just a block," Jess replied. "We're pretty lucky…the truck stopped right near the safehouse…"

Luck. Robin allowed himself a quiet inner chuckle. He had nearly forgotten the meaning of the word and concept. After all, he had had none of it for the past month, having it _now_, all of a sudden, was an altogether new feeling.

Jess, as usual, led the way down the sidewalk, brushing past the thickening stream of pedestrians on their way to work or simply going about their lives. They walked down to the next block and stopped in front of a boarded up eatery. The place had been like that for years and no one had ever questioned it or been any the wiser. After all, it was common to see shops and buildings closed up like that in cities such as this. Owners could go missing when they tangled with the wrong people.

No one also seemed to mind the fact that Robin was carrying an unconscious boy. It didn't seem plausible that something like that was common; the citizens simply didn't seem to care.

Jess forced open the door and stepped inside, brushing herself off and running a hand through her hair. "Back here," she motioned for Robin to follow, weaving through the tables and around the back of the front counter.

Emblazoned on the floor was an unfinished pyramid, one with no pinnacle. Instead of a peak, above the pyramid was a triangle with a human eye in the center. The All-Seeing Eye, the adopted symbol of the Illuminati, and the same one Robin recognized from the safehouse in the South Mire Ghetto.

Jess reached down and pressed a small part of the floor right below the All-Seeing Eye. There was a dull thunk as a perfect, fist-sized square of floor depressed, revealing a handle-like grip. Jess grabbed the grip and pulled. A larger section of floor came up with it, revealing a small shaft and metal ladder leading down several stories into a well-lit room below.

Robin climbed down first with Blaze so that Jess could seal the entrance behind her as she followed. He dropped down to the floor and took a quick glance around.

The room was similar to the Southern Mire Safehouse. It had a COM center, a medical station, a makeshift kitchen in one corner, and cots in the fourth. Two teenage boys, one older than the other, and both older than Blaze and Jess, were sleeping in two of the cots. Robin's arrival had not woken them.

"Welcome," Jess announced as she dropped to the floor as well, waving her hand around majestically to the room, "to the North Mire Safehouse."


	27. Chapter 26: The Gentleman Criminal

**_Author's Note_**

_Well, I know I said that I probably wouldn't be updating as often, but it's been a four-day weekend, so enough said! I thought it interesting that with this chapter, this story is now as long as my first one...which is interesting because this one is nowhere near being finished yet.  
Also, this year in school I am taking Latin (don't ask why) but in that class I found that the Latin word 'Ira' means 'anger', and that the accusative form of that is 'Iram', which is the name of one of my major Elite characters. I had no idea of that when I made up his name. Just thought that was an interesting little fun fact...aight, I'll get out of your hair now._

_-TheAmateur_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: The Gentleman Criminal

**0000 Hours, September 10, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Twelve Minutes Prior)  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys City, Terra Firma**

The blindfold was dark and scratchy against Alex's eyes. He was aching to reach up and scratch them, but such a move would have been unwise.

Alex Ambrose had woken up after a restful night's sleep, spending the remainder of the afternoon and evening sparring with Sam in hand-to-hand. She managed to beat him almost every time, but still; it never hurt to practice every once in a while.

Once night had fallen, the Ambroses had scrounged up a makeshift dinner so that they wouldn't go hungry for the day, and after they were finished, Sam had left to 'acquire' more supplies to last them through the week.

Alex left some time later, around quarter to midnight. He strolled out of the pawnshop and onto the deserted sidewalk, illuminated only by the occasional street light. He walked down the street to the next block, crossing the intersection and stopping at the corner where he had made contact with Mansfield, the mobster who Alex had met the previous day.

Alex stopped at the corner and waited, checking his watch. It was 11:58. Two minutes to go.

Those two minutes passed by quickly, their end heralded by the arrival of a pure black four-seater hovercar. The hovercar, one of the brand-new models made with the same technology as Forerunner grav-lifts, pulled up in front of Alex and stopped. The back door opened and a familiar man with a small mustache and goatee, clad in a long, black overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, stepped out.

"Mr. Mansfield," Alex greeted him with a nod.

"I need your weapon," Mansfield held out an open hand. "I'm sure you understand."

"Perfectly," Alex reached behind to his waist and drew out his silenced magnum, presenting it handle-first to the mobster.

Mansfield, secretly grateful that there had been no conflict in acquiring the weapon, took the sidearm and tucked it away. "Second: no outsider, not even one as potentially useful as you, may know where our base of operations is. Again, I'm sure you of all people would understand the necessity of hiding your home from the enemies."

Alex let out a quiet sigh, but allowed Mansfield to tie a black piece of cloth over his eyes, completely obscuring his vision. He was herded into the back seat next to Mansfield. There was the clunk of the door closing, then the sound of the engine revving.

The car moved off, heading down the road. It wove its way through the city, turning onto roads and through wide alleyways. Alex could feel the turns, but gave up trying to remember the way he came.

He gave a slight shrug. After all, it didn't really matter if he knew where their base of operations was; he had no intention of ever attacking them. For now, at least, they were not his enemy.

The drive took at least half an hour, plowing through the light rain which had started up again sometime earlier in the night. After a while, Alex heard the monotonous hum of the engine begin change. He felt the hovercar begin to slow down, alerting him that they were nearing their destination.

"Alright, I'll give you the beginner's advice before we take you in," Mansfield said, unbuckling himself. "First; refer to my boss only as Mr. Blackmoore. No 'sir', no 'mister', just 'Mister Blackmoore'. Second; do not ask vague questions. Stay specific, and be careful what you talk about. Do not ask him about mob secrets or dealings. Last; do not slouch. Mr. Blackmoore is something of a gentleman. If he is going to take some time out of his schedule to grant you an audience, the least you can do is look presentable."

"Call him by his name, watch what I say, no slouching. Got it," Alex replied, pantomiming checking off all three requirements.

The car came to a full stop and the engine fell silent. The front doors opened as the driver climbed out. "Come on," Mansfield opened his door and pulled Alex out behind him, leading the blindfolded Spartan across the street.

Alex followed blindly, stopping when Manfield stopped, hurrying when Mansfield hurried. He heard the sound of an opening door and suddenly he was out of the rain and inside what seemed to be a large building.

He was led through several hallways and down a few flights of stairs, passing dozens of murmuring and chatting men and women whom he could not see before Mansfield pulled him to a halt. The blindfold was removed from his face. Alex blinked several times, his eyes adjusting to the bright halogen lights illuminating the room he was in. It looked exactly like a waiting room, which it was, to a degree.

"Are you ready?" Mansfield asked.

Alex gave a deft nod in reply, answering the mobster's inquiry.

Mansfield walked right up to the oak door situated in the back of the waiting room and rapped on it several times with a knuckle. "Boss? It's me. I've got the person of interest with me."

"Enter," a man replied from the other side of the door.

Mansfield pushed the door open and allowed Alex to enter, stepping in behind the Spartan and closing the door.

This room looked more like a study. It had a wall lined with bookshelves and another with stacks of records and archives. A plush red carped lined the floor, old-fashioned lamps illuminated the room from the walls, and an antique, mahogany desk was situated in the back of the room in front of a stone fireplace.

Behind the desk was a man dressed in a gray and black dress shirt, tan-colored trousers, and a pin-striped, loose-hanging suit jacket. He appeared to be in his fifties or sixties. Wrinkles lined his eyes and face, his hair was in the transitional phase from black to gray, as was his neatly-trimmed mustache. He had cold, gray eyes. They weren't quite as piercing as Alex's harsh electric-blue irises, but they came close. Although he appeared and acted cultured and civilized, Alex could tell from a single look that he was not a man to be trifled with. The same mouth which spoke so politely to strangers and colleagues alike was the same mouth which commanded what appeared to be the most powerful and extensive mob on the planet. Gentleman's talk was not the only thing which came out of it.

The man behind the desk continued reading the report on the desk in front of him for a minute before acknowledging his visitors. "The Felmann brothers are lagging behind on their payments, John. First thing tomorrow, I want you and Clemenzo to convey my displeasure to them and hopefully persuade them to be more…on time…in the future. I would prefer you not end them quite yet; their payments help me a good deal, but if it takes a good beating, then so be it. See to it."

"Right away, boss," Mansfield nodded and turned on his heel, leaving the room.

"Now, down to brass tacks," the man stood up and regarded Alex. He reached down to his desk and picked up a pair of spectacles, unhinging them and placing them over his eyes. "You must be the man who approached John Mansfield yesterday?" he asked, his voice lilting with a proper upper-British accent, adding to his image of a gentleman.

"That is correct," Alex answered, offering no more and no less information than what the older man asked.

"You realize that by incapacitating our informant and taking his place like you did, you ran the risk of disrupting our operations?"

"Yes, I did," Alex replied. "One must be creative when trying to approach and deal with creative people."

The older man smiled faintly. "An intellectual…most curious. We hardly get any of those anymore…well, before we attend to business, let us commence with the introductions. My name is Percival Wellington Blackmoore, but you may simply call me Mr. Blackmoore. I am the head of this organization you see here. Although we have no formal name, the closest word in the English language to describe us would be 'mafia', though we are not nearly as crude as most misguided crime-based aggregations. Now that I have told you of myself, it is now your turn."

Alex took a deep breath before speaking. "My name is…" he hesitated for a split-second, debating whether or not he should give up his real name. He then considered the fact that 'Ambrose' was _not_ his real name. He had no last name, so by giving Blackmoore his true name, he would compromise nothing of himself or Sam. "My name is Alexander-G004."

"G004?" Blackmoore sounded skeptical. "What sort of surname is that?"

"I have no last name," Alex explained. "My birth name was Alexander and that number was given to me at a young age."

"Most curious…but I can see that you are telling the truth…most curious indeed," Blackmoore mused to himself. "Very well, Alexander-G004, what is it that you want with me?"

"Information," Alex replied, quick and directly to the point.

"Information, you said?"

"Yes, Mr. Blackmoore."

"Just information? Nothing else?"

"That is correct."

Blackmoore took a moment to consider this odd request. Most people who offered him their services asked for money or some other type of tangible reward, but not this man. Whatever information he sought, it must mean a great deal to him. "What sort of information?"

"I need the names and information of a few certain members of a top-secret Special Operations force known as Shade."

Blackmoore nodded. As far as information went, acquiring names was not too far-fetched a business. "Is that all?"

"No," Alex answered calmly. "I also want to know where and how I can find the Illuminati."

Blackmoore cocked an eyebrow. Hearing mention of the Illuminati, the reclusive, mysterious separatists who opposed the Magistarium, was _not_ commonplace. "You're not from around here, are you, lad?"

Alex remained silent, not willing to divulge too much about his background.

"I can have the names for you and advice on your second piece of information…but first _you_ must do something for _me_," Blackmoore sat back down behind his desk, inviting Alex to take a seat in one of the two chairs situated in front. "And I'm not quite sure you're up to the task. You see, this is an extremely difficult job I need done, and, quite frankly, you're still new, so I do not think that I can-"

Alex stood up abruptly and walked around Blackmoore's desk, picking up an old, discarded iron prod from the fireplace. He gripped both ends and bent the metal effortlessly. When he was finished, he had tied it into a perfect knot.

Blackmoore raised his other eyebrow as Alex placed the transformed poker down on the desk, returning to his seat. "Then again…perhaps I _do_ have a use for you…"

"I'm listening."

Blackmoore stood up and crossed over to the archives and records lining the wall opposite of the bookshelves. He selected one of the folders and brought it back to the desk, setting it down and opening it. Inside was a packet of papers. Profile information, Alex realized.

Blackmoore pulled out a glossy, printed picture and laid it out flat in front of Alex.

In the picture was a middle-aged, greasy, black-haired man with the complexion of a weasel. He wore a simple suit jacket which did little to conceal his good-sized paunch.

"This man is Jessup Gendarme, the Magisterial Governor of San Anselma, the other major city in the Tethys Region," Blackmoore explained. "My organization has no love for the Magistarium—and it is a completely mutual dislike—but for the most part, they have left us alone. We pay off an official here, an Inquisitor there, sometimes even a Regional Praetor on good days, and they pay us no heed. We are allowed to conduct our business accordingly. However," Blackmoore tapped the photograph of the oily, heavyset man, "recently, Governor Gendarme here has been…obstructing us. He takes our goodwill payments, then turns around and sends Paladins to arrest my people. This has been going on for six months now, and I want the man dead."

"I take it that this is no ordinary assassination deal?"

Blackmoore gave a quick nod. "You would be right. The man is a greedy pig, but he is resourceful. All of my previous attempts to take him out have failed. Now he is also paranoid. Car bombs are of no use, and neither is poison. What we need is a straight-up long-range kill, a sniper. The problem is that wherever he goes, he is accompanied by a private guard detail comprising of four Paladins who he is most likely paying off. These Paladins are trained to be able to determine where hostile weaponsfire comes from, along with many other skills. If I had a sniper take him out from, say, an adjacent building, then the Paladins would be all over him before he could blink. They would capture him, break him, and make him tell everything he knows about me and my work. Then they would come after _me_. Absolutely unacceptable. This problem is further complicated by the fact that Gendarme rarely ever ventures outside of his place of work and his home. He is ferried between the two places in an armored car, making a sniper's window of opportunity extremely slim."

Alex remained silent as Blackmoore laid out the details and complicities of the situation he was in, and what this hypothetical sniper would have to do in order to make the mission a success.

"I have not been idle during those six months, mind you," Blackmoore rose from his seat, crossing over to one of the lamps on the wall and brightening it a tad. Satisfied, he returned to his desk, leaning on the front instead of sitting behind it. "Just because I have been unable to terminate Gendarme so far does not mean that I have not been planning. Take a look here," Blackmoore leafed through several papers and produced a small data crystal, which he slipped into a niche under his desk.

An unseen holo-projector whirred to life and conjured up a full 3-D image, projecting it over the desk. Blackmoore stepped aside so as to not block the image. The image was a representation of an urban district, filled with the grid of streets and tall buildings and skyscrapers.

A pulsing yellow dot appeared on the tallest of the skyscrapers. "This," Blackmoore pointed to the indicated skyscraper, "is the Magisterial Administration building in downtown San Anselma. This is where our dear Governer 'works'. This is also the place where you will kill him. _Where_ you choose to snipe from will be left to your discretion, but it must be at least a mile away from the Administration Building, and it must be suppressed," a red dot appeared in front of the building on the sidewalk. "This is where Gendarme leaves his car to enter the building. This will be your window of opportunity. Use it wisely."

"When do I leave?" Alex asked.

"First thing in the morning," Blackmoore replied. The prim mobster stood up and circled back around to his desk, retrieving the data crystal and slipping it back into the folder. "Here," he picked up the photograph of Governor and held it out to Alex. "So that you don't end the wrong man."

Alex accepted the picture, slipping it into his jacket. "I have an associate, my wife, who will be working beside me. We fought together during the Great War; she is completely reliable."

Blackmoore shrugged. "As long as that pig Gendarme winds up dead, I do not care how you accomplish it."

"I'll also need a vehicle."

"One will be sent to you."

Alex gave a satisfied nod and stood up. "I believe that concludes things here."

Blackmoore stood up as well, walking back out from his desk and holding up a hand. "Before you go…you seem like a solid, honest man, and I have a good feeling about you. Me, I am a fair man. Eliminating Governor Gendarme has been one of my most impossible jobs, and I do not believe telling you what I know about the Illuminati will be a sufficient reward; I know next to nothing about them. You will have to settle for the names. However, if there is one thing I _do_ know about the Illuminati, it's that you cannot find them. _They_ must come to _you_. And I believe that killing a man like Gendarme _will_ catch their attention."

Alex gave a slow nod, considering this new information. "It seems that we both now have our reasons."

Blackmoore hummed in agreement, straightening his jacket and holding out his hand. "I believe it will be a pleasure doing business with you, Mister…"

"Call me Alex," Alex returned the handshake.


	28. Chapter 27: One Shot, One Kill, One Go

Chapter Twenty-Seven: One Shot, One Kill, One Go

**1312 Hours, September 10, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**En Route to San Anselma, Tethys Region, Terra Firma**

The civilian warthog had a slightly faulty engine. It had run fine for the Ambroses as they loaded up and rolled out of the Tethys metropolis—an hour drive in of itself—but after heading down the Route 52 highway for another hour, the engines had started to give Alex and Sam some real grief. It started as minor sputterings and mechanical mix-ups, but eventually the motor completely cut out.

Alex was now leaning down into the engine compartment under the hood, inspecting the wires and their corresponding circuits. "I can't see what's wrong," he finally admitted, still continuing to look, but really giving up.

"Did you check the hydrogen fuel cell?" Sam asked.

"Yeah…it's a bit old, but there's nothing wrong with it…" Alex found a slightly loose wire and pressed it to its circuit more firmly. "Try it again."

Sam, who was lounging in the driver's seat, hit the ignition.

The motor didn't start, but the shock of energy which surged through it was enough to blow Alex back several feet. He landed spread-eagled on his back.

"Wait until I get my hands out of there first, damn it all!" he shouted, sitting up and smoothing his now-wild fair hair down.

"Well how about you _tell_ me that, next time! I can't exactly see through the hood; the crap they did to us on Onyx never gave me x-ray vision!" Sam shot back, swinging out of the vehicle and helping her husband up to his feet. "Weren't you paying attention to the instructors when they taught us about repairing vehicles?"

Alex shrugged shamelessly. "I was the team sniper; I didn't care about that stuff. The technical know-how was usually handled by Robin, anyway…" he trailed off, both he and his wife sharing a moment of pained silence at the mention of their dead friend and comrade. Robin-G227 had been the de facto technical expert of Team Rapier, the five-Spartan team which Alex and Sam had been a part of. He had been the baby of the group, fighting at only fifteen years old. He had never lived to see sixteen; he had been killed on the Ark by a Covenant jackal sniper. Alex and Sam had named their son after him.

"Let me have a look," Sam peered into the hood and examined the engine, poking and prodding a wire or component here and there.

"Well?"

Sam shot her husband a look, shutting him up and giving her the peace and quiet she needed to work. "Looks like one of the energy cufflinks is fried…that explains why the whole thing keeps copping out on us; the energy is getting wasted."

"Can you fix it?"

Sam tinkered around for a few seconds before straightening up, closing the hood, and announcing, "Done."

"Bullshit."

"Try the engine."

Alex, rising to the challenge, hopped into the driver's seat and hit the ignition again. The engine rumbled to life, sounding much healthier than it ever had before. "Just get in…" he grumbled before Sam had a chance to remark.

Sam climbed into the passenger seat, content to allow her moment to pass in silence.

Alex hit the gas and the warthog accelerated back down the highway once more, zipping past the hundreds of other vehicles driving the highway alongside him.

This particular Insurrectionist world, which Alex and Sam had gradually learned was the second-largest world in the Magistarium, did not have any suburbs. The inhabitants of Nemesis III lived either in major urban areas or smaller towns set off in the countryside. There were not many rural communities, nor were there any suburban communities or in-fill. It was also a heavily militarized world; although Nemesis III was only the second-largest world in the Magistarium, it was the oldest and by far the most important. It acted similar to how Reach used to act for the UNSC, and how Sigma Octanus IV now acts for it.

As such, the journey between Tethys City and San Anselma was extremely uneventful and monotonous. Several turnoffs for small towns and villages were passed, but other than that, the countryside remained a dull, gray landscape of rain-swathed rolling hills.

The Tethys Region was the largest region on the planet, covering a good portion of the continent of Terra Firma. The rest was made up of several lesser states, with the exception of the uninhabited subcontinent Terra Flamma, a wild, fiery, volcanic region which formed the far western extension of the main continent. Although the Tethys Region contained several urban cities, only two were truly major hubs. As if it were some sort of balancing act, Tethys City and San Anselma were located at opposite sides of the region.

The rest of the trip took the rest of the day and evening. To avoid an unwelcome accident involving falling asleep at the wheel, the Ambroses pulled over and slept through the night. First thing the next morning, just after the crack of dawn, they woke back up and resumed their journey.

By then, they were already close to San Anselma. They arrived at the bustling city by the time the sun had already established its ascent into the sky, bathing the city in the dull, ambient light of a heavily cloudy day.

"Cities…" Sam sighed, not bothering to hide her distaste for the compact, closed-in environment. "Why do we always end up having to do everything in a city?"

"Popping a political target in his suburban home in the middle of the woods would be too easy," Alex shrugged, not fazed with urban operations. After what he had gone through in Mombasa, and even worse, Kiev, during the war, a simple one-shot in a cityscape wasn't very much to stomach at all.

Even though they had reached the city, it still took another hour to locate the location of where the Magisterial Governor, Jessup Gendarme, would arrive to begin his day at 'work'. Putting a 14.5x114mm APFSDS round into his skull was not as simple as it may have appeared to be. From what Mr. Blackmoore had told him, Alex's window of opportunity for a kill was extremely small, and it had to be made from more than a mile away. Any closer than that, and he would risk capture, which would put a sizeable dent in his plans.

Mr. Blackmoore had also mentioned that Governor Gendarme was a man of strict routine. If that were the case, Alex's mission would be made much easier.

The Magisterial Administration building, an imposing, silver skyscraper spearing the heavens amidst its lesser neighbors, came into view. Alex maneuvered onto the appropriate street, the one which ran by the Administration building's entrance, and parked amidst a line of idle vehicles, powering the engine down.

"You scouting the place out?" Sam asked, if only to break the silence which had settled over the couple for the past hour.

"Mm-hmm," Alex grunted, taking out a pair of binoculars from the warthog's glove compartment. "This is different than the old-fashioned sniping I used to do during the war…this is assassin's work, not soldier's. It needs to be perfect, flawless. Anything less than that will not do."

As they spoke, a large, armored APC rumbled up the street, coming to a stop in front of the Administration building. The side door hissed and slid open, allowing four men clad completely in black armor to climb out. After assessing the area and deeming it clear, the four men—Paladins, Alex and Sam recognized them as—stepped aside and allowed another man to climb out.

This man was a sweaty, oily, overweight individual, black-haired, look of a weasel. Alex pulled out Blackmoore's image of his target and glanced at it briefly. "That's our man," he confirmed, nodding to the newly-disembarked man on the sidewalk who had set off at a brisk pace to the Administration building's entrance, disappearing inside.

Sam checked her watch. "Eight o' clock, exactly," she said, calling out the time.

Alex nodded again. "And he was out in the open for around six or seven seconds, surrounded at all times by his Paladins…this is going to be interesting. Now, we just need a spot to snipe from…"

Alex started up the engine and set off down the road at a slow pace. "It'll have to be on the opposite side of the road than the Administration building, otherwise I won't have a clear shot…" he murmured. "Most of these buildings seem like they're occupied, though…"

"Could we try a rooftop?" Sam asked.

Alex shook his head. "No, too exposed. If we went on a rooftop like that, the Paladins would be able to spot us in a heartbeat."

As the Ambroses discussed Governor Gendarme's fate, a small, compact, silver hovercar pulled up alongside them, honking its horn once. The window rolled down, revealing two men dressed in business men's attire. The man at the driver's seat reached down and pulled out a small package, handing it through the window to Sam. "With Mr. Blackmoore's compliments," the man gave them a quick nod. "Good luck," he said before accelerating off.

Noon grew closer and eventually passed as Alex and Sam inspected the buildings a mile away from the Administration building which could be possible candidates for a sniper location. Many of the possible buildings were occupied office complexes, unsuitable for use. Others were tightly secured structures, also unsuitable.

After reconnoitering the buildings a mile in the opposite direction, Alex and Sam gave up trying to find an ideal location. "None of these buildings are what we need," Alex sighed, killing the engine and resting his head back on the seat. "They're either inaccessible, or teeming with civvies."

"We'll just have to improvise," Sam shrugged. "Not as if we have any choice in the matter. We blow this; we get no information on the ones who murdered our son and then we'll also have Blackmoore to deal with. That being said…we have to improvise."

Alex grunted, turning his head to regard his wife. "Well, unless you want to charge right in and hold up an entire office floor full of cubicle pukes like a cheap action movie, we're going to have to rethink our strategy."

"What's to say we _can't_ hold up an office floor full of cubicle pukes like a cheap action movie?" Sam raised an eyebrow, her expression remaining static.

"Funny," Alex chuckled, holding Sam's gaze for a few moments before he realized that she was being serious. "You're joking right? Right? Wait, you're serious?! How are we supposed to hold down an entire floor of people without bringing the authorities down on our asses?!"

"Maybe we should see what's inside the package Blackmoore's man gave you," Sam suggested.

Alex let out another sigh and complied, reaching down and picking up the small package which he had placed on the floor of the warthog. He deftly cut it open, revealing a small, silver box with a touchpad on its top.

Alex tapped the touchpad and a familiar voice began to speak from the box, a recording. "If you are hearing this, then my men have successfully made contact with you," Mr. Blackmoore's voice issued from the box. "Please forgive this highly unusual method of communication; precautions must be taken in the daytime, especially in San Anselma, where, as long as Governor Gendarme still breathes, my organization is in much more danger than it is elsewhere. One of my adjutants, a man named Tirpolitz, who heads up my organization in San Anselma, will be awaiting you at a specific location. If you need any materials for your mission, you can negotiate with him. Once the task is done, return to me immediately. At that time, we shall discuss your desired information."

Blackmoore's recording then gave the location of a building which his lieutenant could be found at before informing the Ambroses that it would self-destruct in five seconds. The effect was not spectacular; all it did was let out a slight hiss, falling silent, permanently disabled.

Alex tossed the box away, restarting the engine. "Well, we may have just found our way to hold up an office floor," he said. "Let's go."

The engine started up again and the warthog set off back down the street, heading north.

The day began to darken, partially because of the sun sinking in the west, and partially because of the thickening rain clouds. Before too long, a steady sprinkle had started up, wetting anything exposed with a layer of water. Sam had to reach into the back and set up the civilian warthog's canvas top to avoid getting soaked.

It took no more than ten minutes to reach the location which Blackmoore had indicated in his message. What the Ambroses found was a small dinner restaurant.

"You sure this is it?" Sam asked, eyeing the building, uncertain.

Alex hesitated for a second before answering. "Yeah…yeah, this is 102nd Avenue, this _is_ it. Has to be."

Alex unzipped the canvas top and climbed out of the warthog after shutting down the engine. Sam followed suit and followed her husband up to the restaurant entrance. Alex pushed open the door—clinking an entrance bell a few times in the process—and stepped inside.

The interior of the restaurant was like any other semi-fancy restaurant. Dim lighting, shiny wooden floor, red walls, old-fashioned lights set into said red walls. Music played from an unseen speaker system and several individuals sat at the tables, eating their respective dinners.

A short, rotund, gnome of a man noticed the new arrivals and hurried over to seat them. "Good evening, sir, madam," the man greeted the Ambroses cheerfully. "My name is Aldo, and I'll be your server for the evening. If you'll step right this way, we can get started."

"I'm here to see Mr. Tirpolitz," Alex said to the server before he could spirit them away to an open table.

"I'm sorry?" the server cupped a hand around his ear, as if he wasn't sure what Alex had said.

Alex repeated himself. "We are here to see Mr. Tirpolitz."

Aldo looked uncertain. "Mr. Tirpolitz doesn't see just any stranger who walks off the streets and requests audience, that's a sure way to get killed or arrested in these parts."

"We're here to kill Governor Gendarme," Alex whispered icily, soft enough so that only the server could hear.

The man's eyes bulged for a second in surprise before a flicker of remembrance crossed his face. "You must be…follow me…" the man waddled towards the kitchens, gesturing for the Ambroses to follow. He pushed through the swinging double kitchen doors and strode into the kitchens, making his way past the chefs and their appliances.

Alex and Sam followed the man down another hallway and down a flight of stairs. The stairs went down into a dimly-lit room, occupied by a handful of men and women chatting amongst themselves quietly. They paid the new arrivals a quick, indifferent glance before returning to their business.

The server crossed the room, heading over to a thick, oak-paneled door set into the wall. He pushed the door open and allowed the Ambroses inside.

The inside of this room was similar to the one in Tethys, although not quite as old-fashioned. Neon lights illuminated the room, and there was a large table full of equipment occupying one of the walls instead of records.

Leaning over the fiberglass desk was a short, but thin man. His face was pale and his lips nearly non-existent, making his mouth a thin, hard line. He was nowhere near as elegant as Blackmoore was, and he didn't try to be either.

_A lieutenant who does not consider himself his commander_…Alex thought approvingly, giving a slight, imperceptible nod.

The server backed away and left the room, shutting the door behind him. The man leaning over the desk straightened up and cleared his throat, glancing at the new arrivals. "Who the hell are you? For your own sake and welfare, make your answer a good one."

"We're working with Mr. Blackmoore," Sam replied.

"Mm-hmm, is that so?" the thin man raised a quizzical eyebrow, eyeing the Ambroses over. "If he _has_ sent you, than you would be able to tell me what his middle name is."

"His middle name?" Sam repeated, not following.

"Yes, his middle name. Let's hear it."

"Wellington," Alex spoke up. "He told us his name was Percival Wellington Blackmoore. His middle name is Wellington."

The thin man's other eyebrow shot up his forehead faster than a racecar. "Well I'll be damned…old Blackie really _is_ gonna do it…" he murmured pensively. His returned his gaze to his visitors and gestured for them to have a seat. "Please, sit down. I apologize for my doubts; you are not the first people to come in here claiming to be acquainted with my friend and superior. To know his middle name, you had to have spoken to him face-to-face. I am Idek Tirpolitz, and I am the big cheese of this city…at least I used to be…before Gendarme grew a bold pair…"

Alex and Sam complied, seating themselves in the small, sturdy armchairs set in front of the desk. "Gendarme, in fact, is the reason we are here," Alex said.

Tirpolitz nodded. "Yes, I know; I was informed a while ago that Blackmoore might be sending someone…to tell you the truth, I never quite believed it. Knocking off Gendarme…well, it's going to take a hell of a lot to pull that off, but if he thinks you can do it…"

"Blackmoore told us to meet with you to discuss the execution of our mission, in case we needed materials," Sam explained.

"Yes, yes," Tirpolitz nodded again, waving his hand dismissively. "Yes, I have been informed of that fact as well. Shall we negotiate logistics?"

"The best location will be from the fifth floor of the Hewitt-Jamison office complex. It overlooks the Administration building's entrance," Alex explained to Blackmoore's subordinate. "The only way to kill our mutual friend the Governor is to snipe him. One shot, 1.2 miles away, six-second window of opportunity."

"You can make a shot like that?" Tirpolitz looked visibly taken aback. The concept of sniping Governor Gendarme had been brought up more times than he had fingers and other appendages to count, but it had always been an impossibility. There simply wasn't anyone in Blackmoore's organization _anywhere_ in Terra Firma who had even half the skill as a sniper needed to take out Gendarme from over a mile away. Tirpolitz, after not being able to find such a man for six months, was naturally skeptical of Alex's claim.

It was Alex's turn to wave a dismissive hand at Tirpolitz's query. "The shot is child's play; that's not the problem. The problem is the location itself."

Tirpolitz decided to take Alex's word for it concerning his skill with a sniper rifle and built on that, going with what the Spartan said. "Come again? I thought you said the Hewitt-Jamison building was sound."

"As a sniper location, it is perfect," Alex explained.

"The problem is that it is an office complex, and that our window of opportunity takes place at eight in the morning, at which time the place will be filled with people," Sam finished for her husband. "We can't just traipse into a floor full of cubicle-dwelling white-collars and hope to kill the dear Governor without having the authorities descending on us like a swarm of locusts. Well, we can't do it alone, at least."

Tirpolitz had an inkling of where this was going. "You _would_ need assistance in that regard," he agreed.

Sam nodded, a cold smile parting her face. "If you could send some of your subordinates with us, maybe a dozen or so, then we might be able to make this work."

Tirpolitz leaned back in his chair, stroking his bare chin, a pensive look in his eyes. "Mm…" he hummed, nodding slightly. "Normally I would tell you to suck it up and find another way, but…well, killing that pig Gendarme is no normal mission, and we probably will never get another shot at it, so…I don't see why I can't make that happen."

* * *

The workday on the fifth floor of the Hewitt-Jamison office complex was as boring and dull as it was monotonous. The drones inhabiting the cubicles did not mind that fact; most of their day-to-day lives were not much more interesting than what transpired here.

All of the men and women there had been toiling away at their stations ever since mid-morning, breaking only for lunch and ten-minute coffee-breaks. A dozen or so janitors worked their way through the cubicles, trash brooms and large, wheeled garbage cans in tow, sweeping up any stray wrappers, tissues, and dust which collected on the floor and threatened to deprive the fifth floor of its cleanliness.

The environment was completely silent; there was no conversation, no human sounds. This could also be attested to the sound-proofing built into the floor, walls, and ceiling, put there to ensure the workers' maximum concentration and focus on their jobs.

The sun steadily sank below the western horizon. The dark rain-clouds prevented anyone from actually _seeing_ Helios complete his daily circuit, but the fact that no one ever even looked out of a window anymore rendered the whole point moot.

Eventually, the darkness of night set in and enveloped the city. The workers, once their day was finished, all rose and departed, leaving the fifth floor of the Hewitt-Jamison building quiet, save for the janitors. Soon after, they, too, left.

And then, ten hours later when the sun rose, its light penetrating the dark veil of clouds and gradually brightening the gray cityscape, the workers returned. They all filed in and left their coats at the entrance room next to the elevator, filing into their cubicles and beginning a new day of purposeless existence.

A dozen or so janitors, the same ones from the day before, finished with cleaning up the fourth floor, headed up onto the fifth floor, patrolling down the aisles for trash and litter.

This went on for two or so hours until, at exactly 7:55 on the morning of September 12th, for the first time in any of their lives, Fate decided to throw the workers of the fifth floor of the Hewitt-Jamison complex a bone.

The elevator dinged and opened, revealing a tall, young woman with flowing red hair which fell past her shoulders, and a shorter, fair-haired, freckled man with piercing blue eyes, carrying a large briefcase. Both of them were strangers. The man wore simple black jeans and a light black jacket, his companion dressed similarly.

None of the workers even noticed their arrival; their computer screens were much more important than these strangers. Acknowledging strangers didn't line their pockets; paying attention to the screens did.

And so, when the couple made their move, the workers were taken completely by surprise.

The woman stayed put, but the man circled around the edge of the floor, sticking to the windows and avoiding the cubicles, until he reached the opposite end of the floor, stopping by the windows overlooking the street which the building's entrance was on. The Administration building could be seen a ways down the road, had anyone ever bothered to look out the window ever since it had been fitted into its niche several years ago.

The man pulled a plastic chair over, set the briefcase down, and climbed on top. He reached behind his back, sliding an unsilenced M6H magnum out from his waistband. He held the gun into the air and fired a single shot into the soundproofed ceiling. The crack rang out through the entire floor, jerking every single worker back into reality. A single scream rang out, and, like a breaking mould, the entire floor began to descend into pure pandemonium. Workers shouted their lungs out, jumping over seats, over the shoulder-high cubicle walls, over each other, trying to get away from the gunshot.

"Everyone calm the hell down!" Sam barked at the top of her lungs, drawing a magnum of her own and aiming it at the forehead of the first man to approach her. "Everyone stay calm, there is no need to get into a fuss! We are temporarily taking control of this floor, so just stay quiet and docile and we won't have to plug you!"

The workers considered this for a few seconds before deciding that a single woman wouldn't be able to stop all of them from passing by to get help. The mass surged forward.

Alex gave a sharp whistle.

The dozen or so janitors, who had been laying low around the four large portable garbage cans which they had been toting around, straightened up and leaped into action. With unintelligible yells and shouts, the 'janitors' drew out the MA6A assault rifles and M11 Caseless submachine guns which had been stashed in the garbage cans. The 'janitors', now armed to the teeth, fanned out and covered the entire floor, climbing up onto chairs and aiming their weapons threateningly into the crowd, which had stopped dead in its tracks.

"Down on your knees! _On your motherfuckin' knees!_" one of Tirpolitz's men screamed, jamming his assault rifle between the shoulder blades of a hapless worker, shoving the man to the ground. The rest of Tirpolitz's men followed the same example and, within fifteen seconds, the entire force of workers was lying facedown on the floor. Tirpolitz's men kept careful beads trained on the whole lot, threatening to unpleasantly punish anyone who decided to twitch.

Sam covered the exits; which comprised of the stairwell entrance and the elevator door. Anyone who decided to head onto the fifth floor would run into a particularly unwelcome surprise.

Alex, ignoring the chaos around him and the actions of Tirpolitz's men to pacify the workers, had gotten down from his chair. He opened the briefcase and dumped out the parts of his prized SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle. His hands a blurry whiz, he assembled his weapon in four seconds flat. He slid a four-round mag into the chamber and flicked off the safety.

The Spartan unlocked the window and nudged it open all the way. It was good that the window was able to be opened; while he would have shattered the glass if he needed to, it wouldn't have done wonders for keeping his location secret.

Alex shouldered his sniper rifle and walked up to the open window, aiming so that the barrel was protruding outside. He peered through the sights and acquired the approach to the Magisterial Administration building, making general, and later, minute, adjustments to the sights in order to achieve optimal accuracy. He slowed his breathing and forced himself to calm down a bit. "Time!" he called out.

"7:59!" one of Tirpolitz's men hollered back. The rest of the mobsters murmured their wishes of luck to the Spartan as he lined up his shot and took aim.

"Don't miss, Ace," Sam said quietly.

Alex, his augmented hearing able to clearly pick up what Sam had said from all the way across the floor, merely smiled. It was a cold, cynical smile, one that did not reach his eyes.

_The armored car appeared further down the road, turning the corner and heading towards the Administration building._

Alex followed it with his scope. He held his breath and counted to four, releasing it and breathing back in with long, smooth, inhalations.

_The armored car came to a stop._

Alex checked his sights once again. Satisfied, he focused in on the armored car's side door.

_The side door opened. The first Paladin stepped out, followed by his three compatriots. They all looked around, searching for anything that might threaten the safety and life of their superior._

Alex centered his crosshairs on the empty space to the right of the side door, a space which seemed to be beckoning to him.

The overweight, greasy, black-haired man from Blackmoore's photograph stepped out of the armored car. Jessup Gendarme, Magisterial Governor of San Anselma, the cause of several of Percival Wellington Blackmoore's now-many gray hairs. The man whose death would help Alexander-G004 take revenge on the ones who had kidnapped and murdered his son, and would also help this city in many more ways than it would hurt it, if any.

_Gendarme set off towards the Administration building at a brisk pace, covering half the distance in a mere five seconds._

Alex centered his crosshairs on the man's oily, slicked back head and tightened his finger around the trigger. He drew in a breath and held it.

_Angle it_…Alex nudged his crosshairs a tad to the right, leading his target.

The world seemed to warp, contracting down to the scope of Alex's sniper rifle, before it seemed to stop.

_Now!_

Alex squeezed the trigger.

The sniper rifle coughed out a single round. It traveled the 1.2 mile distance from the fifth floor of the Hewitt-Jamison building to the skull of Magisterial Governor Jessup Gendarme in less than a second, traveling faster than the _**CRACK**_ that accompanied it.

Alex adjusted his aim and fired the three remaining rounds in his mag, dropping three of the four Paladins before they could even react. He ejected the empty mag and slammed a new one in, taking aim and firing at the last Paladin just as he vanished around the corner, striking him in the side. The wound would not be fatal. Alex sighed, realizing this, but shrugged soon after. The mission had been a success. A huge success.

Jessup Gendarme lay facedown on the sidewalk, less than a yard away from the entrance of the Administration building, a still-smoking hole in the side of his skull, a pool of his own life-essence spreading out around him in an ever-growing puddle.

Alex backed up from the window and disassembled his sniper rifle, tucking it back away into the briefcase, and stood back up. "Contact Mr. Tirpolitz," he said to the nearest mobster. "We have some good news for him."


	29. Chapter 28: Never a Dull Moment

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Never a Dull Moment

**0806 Hours, September 12, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region, Terra Occasa**

Nathan Allaine had had a long week. Hell, he had had a long _month_. He could complain about most of the days he had lived through during his seventeen years of existence, but the past week was the proverbial 'icing on the cake'.

All last month, Nathan had been accompanying several men from Captain Hadley's special ops squad, and they had blown up a munitions factory in Rhodeston, a smaller city in the Andorra Region. That had been the most recent in a two-month-long string of raids in that area, and by far the most successful. Then, a week ago, he had been contacted by Melvin, the Illuminati Watchman of the Andorra Region. By then, everyone had heard about the botched raid on a Magisterial Governor's home in the Jethro Region. Blaze, one of his old subordinates, had been captured and taken to the dreaded Cruciamentum in the taboo Meillan Region, an area on Nemesis III under extremely strict government control, strict enough to persuade the Illuminati to leave that region alone.

For the past week, Nathan, along with his younger, ambitious companion, Sean Newston, had been holed up in the undersupplied Illuminati listening post situated a ways outside of Mire City, waiting for word from Gerald, before having to pack up and actually move _into_ the city a few days later.

And now, here they were.

Nathan was up and awake, frying eggs in a wide pan on top of the shiny, clean oven situated in the makeshift kitchen situated in the other room, separated from the rest of the safehouse by a thin wall with an open doorway. He had slept for two straight days, making up for all of his lost sleep from the past week. As the egg white solidified and turned opaque, Nathan agitated them a tad with the spatula, seeing if they were ready to take out. They weren't.

There were several kinds of children who could be found in the youth subdivision of the Illuminati Special Ops. There were the very rare ones who were already themselves children of Illuminati citizens and who volunteered either for the sake of it or for some sense of personal patriotism. There were social misfits; children who had gotten themselves into a bit of trouble, and the Illuminati quasi-government considered it better to offer them a second chance by putting them to use in the field, sparing them the hard labor camps. They, too, made up only a very small number of the adolescents serving in the youth subdivision. There were also orphans from various cities of Nemesis III who had managed to be at the right place at the right time when the Illuminati were around, earning them a place with the rebel group.

Most of the youths, however, were Illuminati orphans; children of operatives killed in the field, children given up or abandoned at birth. Nathan was one of these; his father had been killed in an op in the Redondo Region and his mother had subsequently died in childbirth, making his birthday the date of her death. It sometimes cast a pall over the makeshift, impromptu 'parties' his friends threw for him every 3rd of May, but he had learned to grow past it.

Nathan gave a slight shrug, dispelling his wandering thoughts, and continued to watch the eggs, his stomach really starting to growl in earnest. He hadn't eaten for over three days; he and Sean had managed to grab a little something to snack on from the listening post before they had been uprooted once more.

Sean was still sleeping off the past week, but Nathan had gotten up roughly ten minutes ago, waking up to find two new familiar faces and one unknown one sleeping in the other cots. A heavily-wounded Blaze occupied one of the cots, his face and flesh pale as marble. In another cot slept Jess Flanagan. Like Blaze, she was an orphan from the Magistarium, but she could easily be one of the toughest youths ever to pass through the youth subdivision nevertheless. Sleeping in a third cot was another boy. No more than twelve years old, fair, almost-blond hair, thin mouth, delicate face. Nothing particularly special about him, although Nathan had his suspicions. He had heard stories of why the Illuminatus was paying so much attention to where Blaze was captured; an extremely important individual was said to be incarcerated with him. Could this twelve-year-old be that person?

Nathan tried the eggs again, and this time they held. He shut off the burner and moved the pan onto a cold one, letting it cool off for a second before sliding the two now-fried eggs onto a waiting plate.

The seventeen-year-old grasped the plate and turned around, heading to the table, and nearly dropped it again in surprise. Sitting at the table opposite him was the unknown twelve-year-old, resting his chin on his fists, his harsh blue eyes still slightly glazed from sleep. He was gazing more at the steaming plate than at the older boy.

"Jesus, don't scare me like that!" Nathan recovered from his surprise as quickly as he had reacted with it, setting his plate down and grabbing a fork from the drawers. "Were you here the whole time?"

The twelve-year-old shook his head, remaining silent.

Nathan noticed the longing gaze the younger boy was giving to his plate. "When's the last time you ate?"

"Five days ago," the younger boy replied in a light, shaky voice.

Nathan looked at his eggs once more and let out a weary sigh. He rummaged through the drawers and drew out a second plate and fork. He sat down at the table and slid one of his eggs onto the other plate, passing it over to the twelve-year-old.

The two boys tore into the eggs with an almost animalistic fervor. Once they were gone, Nathan got out a loaf of bread and broke it in half, tossing a hunk to the younger boy and devouring the other himself.

"So, you got a name?" Nathan asked the twelve-year-old, speaking between bites.

"Robin," the younger boy replied, his answer muffled by the bread he was still chewing.

"Why haven't you eaten in over five days? What's your story?" Nathan asked next, curious to find out a little bit more about this strange kid. "Jess find you on the streets? And what the hell happened to Blaze?"

Robin finished eating the bread before settling back. He opened his mouth to answer but was quickly cut off by another loud, almost grating, high voice.

"You consider _telling_ me next time you're making chow?" Nathan's forced partner, a tall, red-haired, high-nosed boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, strode into the room. He took a quick look around the place, saw that there was no longer anything cooked left to eat, and sniffed irately.

"You have hands, Sean, you can make your own damn chow," Nathan grumbled, finishing what was left of his portion of the bread. "You ate most of the crap at the listening post while _I_ slept anyway, if you care to remember."

Sean shrugged, rolling his eyes subtly and muttering under his breath. "Who's the runt?" he gestured to Robin, who was glancing at him quietly, almost eyeing him up.

Nathan shrugged. "He was just about to explain that before you graced us with your presence."

Sean wrinkled his nose in disdain, regarding the younger boy. "He a city orphan? I hope not; they are one thing our outfit does _not_ need any more of right now…"

That prompted a mirthless chuckle from Nathan. "I'd be careful. Jess is only in the next room, and _she_ came from the city. Now, how about you shut the hell up and let the kid talk; I'm actually interested in what he has to say."

Sean rolled his eyes again and rose from the table. "Fine, you do that. I need some air anyway, I'll be back in a few," he said over his shoulder as he left the room, heading straight to the ladder in the main chamber.

"Don't mind him," Nathan rudely gestured at Sean as he left, "He was born with a steel rod up his ass."

"I don't think he likes me."

"Then there's absolutely nothin' wrong about you," Nathan chuckled again, adjusting his posture so that he could settle back in his chair more comfortably. "Now, I believe you were about to answer my questions."

"I was hoping _you'd_ be able to do that for _me_."

"Come again?"

"I don't know why I'm here," Robin declared, letting out a weary sigh.

Nathan nodded thoughtfully, pondering what to ask next. The seventeen-year-old leaned forward, resting his arms on the tabletop. "Well, you sure as hell ain't an orphan, I can tell that from a single glance. People who are loved…well, you can tell them apart from someone like me in a heartbeat. But then, that begs the question…what were you doing in the Cruciamentum?"

"I was brought there," Robin murmured simply, saying nothing more to a person he barely knew.

Nathan rolled his eyes. "Well no shit; there I was thinking you had managed to teleport yourself inside…alright, _why_ were you brought to the Cruciamentum? What'd you do to piss off the government?"

"I didn't do anything!" Robin raised his voice suddenly. Frustration and bitterness had been festering inside of him for over a month now, but he had never been in an environment secure enough to allow him the luxury of venting. Until now, that is. "Why don't you ask the people who broke into my house, _drugged_ me, and brought me to this dump? Why don't you ask them?!"

"Whoa, whoa, easy there, little guy," Nathan backpedaled in the conversation, eager to repair any rift between himself and the young stranger before it could widen. "I'm not accusing you of anything; I'm just trying to get some answers. You may be working alongside me in the future, so it pays to know a little bit about you."

"I'm sorry…" Robin calmed down, slumping down onto the tabletop as well, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice. "Have you ever been in a Cruciamentum?"

"Can't say I have," Nathan answered without hesitating, predicting where this conversation would go.

"Well, I spent a week in that place before Blaze and I managed to escape. You've heard of indoctrination?"

Another nod from Nathan. Everyone knew about indoctrination. It was a common element of life in the Magistarium; it was quite simply impossible to exist without seeing it or experiencing it in one form or another, let alone simply _knowing_ about it.

"Well, they did it to me. I went through day-long sessions of relentless, non-stop torture…they were trying to break my mind, and if they had had more time—a month, per se—they would have done it. If anyone ever asks me what two plus two equals ever again…" Robin shuddered at the thought.

Nathan, who had heard stories about the Chamber of that particular Cruciamentum, did not ask Robin what he meant by that. He didn't need to know, and the twelve-year-old didn't need a stroll down that particular stretch of memory lane.

"You were kidnapped, you're saying? Not captured?" Nathan realized, the lightbulb over his head bursting into light. He leaned forward even more, thoroughly intrigued by the twelve-year-old's story now. "Where are you from? Tethys? Andorra?"

"I'm from Riverside, New York, one of the best small towns ever to be built on Earth."

If High Chancellor Delmar himself had walked into the room wearing a tutu and juggling scarves, it would not have surprised Nathan as much as this new revelation. "You're from Earth?" he spluttered. "_The_ Earth?!"

"No, one of the dozens of _other_ Earths…" Robin muttered.

Nathan shook himself out of his bewilderment. "You're from the UNSC…you don't understand; the UNSC has been ignorant of the Magistarium's existence since the Interplanetary Wars four hundred years ago…to suddenly have someone from the UNSC, and from _Earth_ no less, here…well, let's just say that you'd have a better chance making a pig fly than at finding someone from the UNSC here. If you're from the UNSC, than that also must mean…oh…" Nathan's face fell, turning ashen for a second. "I don't think you realize just how lucky you are to not be in the clutches of the Magistarium right now."

Robin cocked a quizzical eyebrow. This was not the first time he had heard people say things like this.

"We—the Illuminati—we knew that the Magistarium was planning something huge," Nathan explained. "Something to do with the invasion…the forward invasion forces have already been sent, but the main force still has yet to leave. But the thing is that whatever the Magistarium has up its sleeve, it's not the invasion. Sure, the invasion is part of this plan, and it has a lot to do with whatever the Magistarium's plan is, but the invasion is not the whole picture. There's something more…something bigger…something to do with the Tirque, the aliens who the Magistarium allied themselves with a few decades ago. Since last year, we knew that the Magistarium was going to abduct someone from the UNSC, someone important. Without this individual, the Magistarium's big secret master plan would not be able to work—that much we know. We've been on the lookout for this individual ever since…I didn't think _I'd_ be one of the ones to find him, nor did I think this all-important person would only be a kid."

"What do they want with me?" Robin persisted. He hadn't been able to get any answers out of Blaze, or Captain O'Riley before that, and this lack of knowledge and awareness was driving him insane.

"I don't know," Nathan shrugged. "I really don't. The Illuminatus knows what it is, but he ain't telling anyone. Whatever the Magistarium is planning with the Tirque…all I can say is that it's something big. It's had the Illuminatus hopping nervous this past year, and that's saying something."

"Well, I guess he can rest easy, now," Robin figured.

"Hopefully, but not until we're safely back in Portus Illuminatus. Let's not start celebrating until we're out of the Meillan Region."

"Amen," another new voice agreed. The two boys looked up in time to see Jess amble into the room, still bleary-eyed from sleep. She crossed over to the cupboards and opened them, pulling out another hunk of bread. "Where's Gingersnap?" she asked between bites, sitting back down at the table next to Robin.

Nathan couldn't help but laugh at Sean's widely-known and even more widely-used nickname. Nothing made the red-haired fifteen-year-old steam more than being called such. "Upstairs in the building, getting some air. No complaints from this department, mind you."

"Or from mine," Jess muttered. "I'm surprised Harrington's still letting him pull field missions these days, especially after Rhyell City."

Nathan winced at the mention of that city, but did not pursue the subject. "Water under the bridge, Jess, water under the bridge."

Jess gave a cynical snort. "Yeah…I'm sure Dee, Ian, and Mark feel the same way."

"Enough," Nathan said firmly, ending the discussion then and there. "Their deaths were an accident; it's wrong to lay all of the blame on Sean—it doesn't matter. We have a job to do here that supersedes your need for revenge. You and Sean can tear each other apart in Portus Illuminatus if you want to, but not here, not now."

Jess shrugged and nodded, but both Robin and Nathan could see that nothing had been resolved. She settled in and explained the escape from the South Mire Ghetto to Nathan, then explained the nature of Blaze's wound and his current condition.

"What's his name?" Robin broke in suddenly. "Blaze, what's his real name?"

"Well, depends on what you mean by 'real name'," Jess answered for him. "If you mean the name on his birth certificate and the one that his parents or family gave to him, than he has none. He had been found as a newborn on the side of a road in Tethys. No name or identity, no DNA archive match of who his family might be, nothing. While we grew up in the workhouse, his name had been a number. I first started calling him Blaze because he had been obsessed with fire. Lighters, flint, anything he could get his hands on; he was fascinated by the stuff. Plus, any nickname was better than calling him O928-77, the number issued to him by the workhouse."

"You and Blaze went to the same workhouse? But…but, how did you escape with him? He said-"

"Yeah, he usually leaves out the minute details of _how_ we escaped," Jess sighed, giving an indifferent shrug. "Can't really blame him; it's nothing I'd enjoy boasting around. When he told you about it, he probably didn't mention me or the two overseers he killed."

Robin shook his head, his eyes wide with new surprise. It seemed that he was constantly learning new things about his companions, things which they had either failed to mention or simply didn't talk about. He would never have guessed that Blaze, at eight years old, had killed two people. He would never have guessed that he and Jess had been through the same workhouse. What _else_ didn't he know about his 'friends'?

"You know, before I was taken to the Cruciamentum, I learned from the man who kidnapped me that the Magistarium had no intention of ever returning me home. Now that I've escaped, I've had time to settle down and think about this whole thing... Do your people honestly intend to let me go either?"

That provoked an unexpected silence from Nathan and Jess. They were taken off guard, not expecting a question like that. They had been so focused on getting out of Mire City that thoughts like those hadn't even brushed their minds.

The troubling aspect was that Robin had a point. Neither Jess nor Nathan could honestly disprove Robin's point. On the contrary; his point actually made a lot more sense than any other alternative. Him being who he was, so important to the Magistarium, could the Illuminati honestly allow him to simply return to his home planet, where he could be snatched right back up again? No, they couldn't. And so, they wouldn't.

Thankfully, before either Jess or Nathan had the chance to answer Robin's query, the COM station began to beep. Someone was trying to contact them.

"That'll be Gerald," Nathan declared, leaping out of his seat and making a beeline for the COM. Robin and Jess followed on his heels. The entrance hatch opened and Sean slid down the ladder, sealing the entrance behind him and joining the others at the station.

"Hello? North Mire Safehouse, this is Gerald, please respond!" Gerald's voice issued from the COM.

Nathan activated the unit and replied, saying, "This is Nathan, Gerald, how're ya doing?"

"Doing fine, Nate, just fine…if I was doing any finer, then I'd have to be on the far side of the Pearly Gates," Gerald's reply was, dripping with enough sarcasm to fill a seabed. "What's your status?"

"All accounted for, Gerry," Nathan answered. "Jess an' the mystery-kid got here just fine. Did you know that the kid is-"

"From the UNSC, yes," Gerald finished for Nathan. "He is more important, and dangerous, than you know. What about Blaze?"

Jess walked over to the comatose thirteen-year-old's cot and checked his wounds. The green spiderweb of the poison from the laced bullets now covered his entire abdomen and was creeping up towards his chest. "He's gonna be on borrowed time real soon."

Nathan relayed the report to Gerald, who gave an audible sigh, which came off as static over the air. "I've managed to bribe the single man in Mire City's transportation department who can be bought. Tonight, a shipment of raw tungsten will be leaving Mire City, headed for the refineries in the Alakos Region in Terra Virida. You will be leaving the city with it. It will be passing through Hatcherville, a small town in the far north of the Meillan Region, and also my base of operations, and that is where you must disembark. I will be waiting for you there. Bear this in mind, though; all I've managed to do is bribe an official _not_ to thoroughly check the transport vehicle, and in an area like Mire City, that is a hell of a lot, but it still is not much. Just because the vehicle won't be thoroughly checked doesn't mean the trip will be idiot-proof; you will have to be constantly vigilant. There are still a million-and-two ways for this to go south, so _don't screw it up_. You've all come much too far for that."

"Done your sermon, old man?" Sean asked wearily, stifling a yawn.

"Who the hell is that? Was that Sean?" Gerald sounded flummoxed and somewhat pleased at the same time. "Just as well…hey, Gingersnap! You had better cut out that attitude by the time you get to my town or I'll send your backtalking hind-parts right back to the Paladins and see how amused _they_ are with your smart ass. They've got electric batons for loudmouths just like you! You done?"

A thoroughly chastised and red-faced Sean simply turned on his heel and marched out of the room, muttering curses and swears under his breath.

"Little twerp calls _me_ 'old man'…bah," Gerald grumbled. "Well, anywho…that's about it. The transport will be stopping at the diner just down the street from your location at eight-o-clock tonight, so be ready. The driver knows nothing of our plans, so he won't be waiting for you."

"Got it," Nathan answered. "See you on the other side."

"Mm-hmm," Gerald hummed in agreement. "Good luck, all of you. Gerald out."

The COM fell silent, leaving the safehouse in silence. Nathan gave a grunt, sitting down on his cot. He had been hoping to be on the move again, but he hadn't expected to be doing so as early as tonight. "Never a dull moment, eh?"

"What I would give for a dull moment…" Robin muttered.

"Well, until we get to Portus Illuminatus, get used to not having any," Jess advised, before chuckling and adding, "Even _then_, the Illuminatus probably has plans for you."

Robin went back to his cot and lay back down, releasing another weary breath, and massaged the curve of his nose, trying to see what the future had in store for him. The future had plans of its own, however, and none of those included giving Robin a hint.

Robin sighed again and closed his eyes, wishing the world away for another few hours. _When will I ever get home?_


	30. Chapter 29: The Watchman

_**Author's Note**_

_Yeah...been a little bit since my last update. I had a bad case of writer's block this past week. I don't know why, but I just couldn't write this chapter even though there wasn't really anything difficult about it. Ah well, I managed to finish it now, and I'm hoping that it'll go more smoothly from now on._

_-TheAmateur_

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Watchman

**1943 Hours, September 12, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Mire City, Meillan Region, Terra Occasa**

"Oi! Wake up!" a pillow came flying out of nowhere, striking the still-slumbering Jess right on her head.

Jess woke with a start, reflexively striking out with her hand in a sharp blow.

Nathan raised his own arm just as quickly, blocking the blow. "Nice try, but no cigar. Come on, get up, we have to leave _now_ if we hope to catch our ride out of this hellhole."

Robin and Sean were already up, just finishing cleaning the kitchen by the time Jess jumped out of bed. "Woke her up without getting a bruise, I see," Sean observed, sounding almost disappointed.

Nathan gave only a low grunt in reply, heading over to his cot. He lifted the pillow and grabbed the silenced berretta which he had put there when he had arrived at the safehouse. He quickly inspected it before sliding it into his waistband. Jess did likewise, prepping for returning to the outside.

"Robin, you know what to do," she nodded to the twelve-year-old, who let out a weary sigh and grumbled something about why the youngest and smallest of the group should do all of the lifting.

Robin slid his hands under Blaze and heaved, lifting the comatose thirteen-year-old onto his shoulder.

"Everyone good?" Nathan called out. The others all murmured to the affirmative, patting themselves down and checking their gear one last time. "Alrighty, then, let's get the hell out of this city."

The adolescents all filed over to the ladder and climbed up one by one. Sean waited for Robin to come up last, sealing the entrance to the safehouse behind him. Jess pushed open the former restaurant's entrance, allowing everyone else to head out onto the street.

"So where are we headed?" Robin posed the question casually, but, inside, he was nervous of the funny looks some of the few passing pedestrians were giving them. Carrying a comatose thirteen-year-old, while necessary in this case, was not very inconspicuous. It took only one loose-mouthed pedestrian to blab to a Paladin or a sympathizer and then his stay in the Magistarium would be extended by quite a bit.

"Diner down the street, that's where Gerald said," Nathan replied, setting off down the sidewalk in the appropriate direction, beckoning the twelve-year-old to follow.

"Same place where we ditched the garbage truck," Jess added.

"Garbage truck?" Sean wrinkled his nose again at the smell he had been putting up with all day. "Well, that explains a lot…" he muttered, turning away and missing Jess's subtle 'up yours' gesture.

The walk to the diner took ten minutes, apt time compared to what it could have been earlier in the day. The streets were relatively empty. It was nighttime now, the rush hour of people returning to their homes after the workday long over. There were still a fair amount of pedestrians on the street still, not enough to clog the sidewalks up, but enough to keep the Illuminati adolescents from sprinting the whole way.

"That must be it," Nathan said as they walked into the parking lot in front of the diner. The spaces were filled with several hovercars and older vehicles with tires, but the one which stood out the most was a particularly large eighteen-wheeler. It was a large, black behemoth, parked across several spaces. A beast at rest.

"Come on, hurry, we're on borrowed time!" Nathan hissed. He led the group forward across the parking lot, now illuminated only by the streetlights and the light from inside the diner.

Jess was the first to leap onto the rear of the tractor trailer. She hit the release with her foot, sending the back of the tractor trailer springing up into its groove, revealing the inside. Dozens of sealed metal barrels of what could only be the raw tungsten which Gerald had mentioned before were stacked on top of large wooden pallets, filling up the entire inside of the truck.

Sean climbed up inside, heading straight to the back of the compartment. Jess climbed in next, turning and offering a hand to Robin, who took it gratefully, hauling himself and Blaze up. Nathan came up last and pulled the door down, securing it and locking it back to the floor.

"And now, we wait," Sean sighed, stretching his arms and lying down behind a pallet of barrels.

"Something you're particularly good at," Jess muttered.

Robin set Blaze down on top of one of the pallets, making sure he wouldn't roll off, then hunkered down in a corner himself.

They didn't have to wait long. No less than five minutes later, the truck rumbled slightly as the engine roared to life. The driver must have finished his meal. The adolescents inside felt it as the truck steadily turned out of the parking lot and accelerated onto the main road.

No one said anything in the darkness as the truck drove on. Time melded together and slipped by like water in a sieve. The drive, despite seeming long, took only forty minutes.

"This is our stop," Nathan murmured as the pitch of the eighteen-wheeler's engines changed, heralding an oncoming stop.

The tractor trailer came to a full halt in just over a minute, the engine petering out to a dull whine, then silence.

"What now?" Robin hissed in the darkness, fidgeting uncomfortably in his corner.

The answer came in the form of the truck's back flap being sprung open and lifted, allowing artificial halogen light to stream into the compartment. The silhouette of a dark-skinned man wearing blue coveralls and a weathered old sailor's cap occupied the entrance to the flatbed's compartment. "Psst," the man hissed, "Anyone in here? I'm with Gerald; you're in the company of a friend."

Nathan stood up and walked out from his hiding place behind the barrels. "You're Gerald's man in this hellhole? Glad to meet you, I'm Nathan," the seventeen-year-old extended a hand.

The man in coveralls shook it quickly, gesturing for the Illuminati operatives to get out. "Much obliged. Now hurry up and get out before the workers get here."

Robin slung Blaze back over his shoulder and joined the others as the man in coveralls led them out of the truck. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. They seemed to be in a train yard, a rectangular, walled compound of tracks, turning platforms, and loading cranes. The tractor trailer's load of tungsten seemed to be the last small part in a much larger shipment, which was being placed into the boxcars of a prepped freight train.

The man in coveralls swiftly herded the youths into a loaded boxcar which had yet to be closed. "I'm gonna close the doors and set 'em, but I won't lock 'em, otherwise you won't be able to get off in Hatcherville, an' that'd be pretty damn detrimental. The boxcars are closed up pretty tight, so y'might want this," he handed Jess a small handheld lantern, albeit one with a bright halogen core. "Good luck, friends," the man parted with a final farewell, closing the boxcar doors behind him, though he didn't slide the locking bolt into place. He would also make sure no one else did so either.

After another half an hour, the load of tungsten from the tractor trailer was finished being loaded into the last few boxcars toward the rear of the train. A faint whistle, still used for freight trains, was heard before it lurched forward and began its long journey to the east coast of Terra Occasa for shipment to the Andorra Region. Robin, Jess, and the others, however, would not be going that far.

Jess turned the lamp on and set it on top of one of the pallets of containers, illuminating the interior of the boxcar, before sitting down and resting back on the wall. Robin sat down next to her and Blaze claimed a spot on the opposite side. Sean had already fallen asleep in one of the corners and was snoring quietly, oblivious to the unkind world around him.

Robin yawned and waited for another few minutes before finally breaking the silence. "So…what's with your Illuminati having kids fighting for them? Are you guys some sort of child army or something?"

Nathan burst out in a snort laughter. "Child Army? Heh…well, kind of…we're much more than a simple 'Child's Army', though…"

"We are a subdivision of the Illuminati Special Ops, a very small subdivision," Jess explained. "There are only a hundred of us, and we're used more for tasks like manning listening stations and recon outposts. Nothing major. Not always that way, though, sometimes we get sent into the field with an adult Spec Ops team, or even by ourselves. Kind of like now."

"Besides, we have our own military back home, and a damn good one," Nathan finished. "We are anything _but_ a child's army. We are our own civilization."

"You're not just a band of rebels?" Robin sounded confused. Everything he had heard about the Illuminati had pointed to that conclusion, but what Nathan and Jess were saying contradicted the whole image.

"Is the Magistarium the mere band of insurrectionists your UNSC thought it was?" Nathan countered.

"Good point…I thought you guys were called the 'United Rebel Front', though, where did 'Magistarium' come from?"

"We've been the Magistarium for nearly four hundred years," Jess explained. "The United Rebel Front was just that, a front. The Magistrate sent several small forces into the UNSC around seventy years ago to destabilize it. They became the Harvest rebels, the Eridanus rebels, the United Rebel Front, and many others…their job was to destabilize the UNSC, and they nearly succeeded, but then the Covenant attacked Harvest in 2525. That put the Magistrate's plans on hold."

Nathan gave an amused grunt. "I'll say…"

Silence fell back over the boxcar as it continued on towards its destination. Although it was impossible to see outside of the boxcars, Robin could tell that it was morning. Too much time had passed for it to still be night. He had curled up in the corner he and Jess were sitting in, a single hand cushioning his head against the hard floor. Every so often he would catch himself nodding off, but would jerk back awake before his eyes could fully close.

This cycle repeated itself several times until, at some point, Robin finally slid into a deep slumber, because after what seemed to be only a few minutes, he found himself being shaken awake.

"Hey, kid," Nathan whispered. "Wake up!"

"Mm…" Robin murmured, forcing open his eyes and rubbing out the blurriness. "We here?"

"Soon," Jess said. "We're close, but we don't want to miss it."

The blond-haired girl extended a hand and Robin took it, pulling himself to his feet. He stretched his arms and rolled his head, easing out the cramps in his neck. "I'm marrying my bed when I get back home…" he muttered under his breath as he walked over to Blaze's makeshift bed/pallet. He picked up the black-haired thirteen-year-old, slinging him back into his usual place over the left shoulder.

"Gerald said that this train will pull into another train yard to allow the driver to rest. We'll probably have to jump ship _before_ it reaches that place," Nathan warned the others as the train began to noticeably slow down.

"What a shame, we were just starting to bond," Sean muttered, running a hand through his fiery hair, glib sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Did he ask you to talk?" Jess inquired in a dangerously quiet tone. "No, he didn't."

Sean shrugged, not fazed in the slightest at Jess's overt animosity. He walked over to the boxcar door and leaned against it, twiddling his thumbs to pass the time.

Jess moved over to the other side of the door as well, leaving Robin alone with Nathan for a brief moment. Robin took advantage of her absence, asking, "Okay, what's her problem with Redhead? She attacks him every chance she gets!"

"Long story, one for another time," was all Nathan gave in response. "He made some bad decisions and fucked up an op in the Andorra Region. He messed up bad; he got three of our own killed, blamed it on Jess, and escaped punishment due to the lack of substantial evidence. She's never forgiven him, and he's never apologized."

"Whoa…" Robin's eyebrows shot up his forehead in surprise as he and the seventeen-year-old joined the other two over by the door. "That's pretty bad."

"Better open it up," Jess suggested.

Nathan grunted in agreement. He bent over and undid the locks holding the door in place from the inside before getting a grip on the edge of the door. He heaved with all his strength, pulling against the wind outside. The door creaked and slid an inch before Nathan had to stop and readjust his grip.

Robin let out a small sigh and put Blaze down on the ground, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles before pushing Nathan aside. He poked his fingers out through the sliver of space between the sliding plate and the boxcar wall and wrapped them around the lip of the door, getting a good grip. He started to walk, effortlessly dragging the large sliding metal plate into its groove, exposing the interior of the boxcar to the elements.

The wind tore into the boxcar, shaking the pallets and ruining hairdos, but the howling quickly died down as the train continued to slow.

Passing by outside was a green, hilly landscape, but soon a small town appeared on the horizon. The train kept decelerating, moving at a manageable speed by the time it entered the town. Nathan didn't know how far away the train yard was, nor how long it would take to reach it, but he wasn't interested in finding out either.

He waited until the train passed through the center of town before shouting, "Jump!"

The adolescents did just that, leaping out of the boxcar and hurling themselves as far away as possible. Robin had trouble doing so while carrying Blaze, but he still managed somehow to land without jostling the comatose boy too much.

Nathan got up and dusted himself off, taking a good look around himself. They had jumped off in what seemed to be a canal-like transportation route, only it contained the train tracks instead of water.

"Quick, we need to jump that wall," Nathan gestured to the ten-foot-tall walls boxing in the railroad. He walked over to one of the walls and knelt down, cupping his hands. Jess placed a foot in the seventeen-year-old's hands and, working with Nathan, heaved herself over the wall. Sean went next, dropping down to the other side. Robin handed Blaze up to Jess before jumping up onto the wall himself.

Robin extended a hand to Nathan and pulled him up with one arm. "You know where we're going?"

"Yeah," Nathan nodded. "Gerald told me where he operates…if that's Dewberry Street on the other side of this alley, then he's not too far away. I can see why he chose to operate in this town of all places in this region…middle of nowhere, last place any nosy Magisterial official would think to look."

Nathan and Robin jumped down and joined Jess and Sean on the ground. They were in the middle of what seemed to be a block of old, dilapidated projects; small apartment buildings stacked on top of one another like toys.

The four companions made their way through the narrow alleyway separating two of the buildings, emerging onto an empty street. Sure enough, a weathered old street sign read 'Dewberry Street'. "Good call," Jess remarked.

"We have to head down until we hit Yellow Street, then head a few blocks west. He operates out of a flat in that area."

"A flat?" Robin asked as the group set off in the appropriate direction. "Just a normal flat?"

"You were probably expecting some uber-secret hideout a mile underground, weren't you?" Nathan chuckled. He turned down another alleyway and checked the street at the other end. It was Decker Street; not their destination yet. This street, and all the others, were populated; pedestrians and cars filled the streets like any other city or sub-cityscape.

"Well…from what I've seen so far, I'd be lying if I said 'no'," the twelve-year-old admitted. He cleared his throat and pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eye, adjusting his grip on Blaze.

Sean rolled his eyes and grumbled something unintelligible under his breath while Jess and Nathan both laughed in unison. "Yeah, well, it'd usually be that way," Nathan agreed, "but Gerald's been the Illuminati Watchman of the Meillan Region for over twenty years now. He doesn't need a hideout anymore."

"You'd probably like Gerald," Jess guessed. "He's not exactly run-of-the-mill."

The companions walked on for another ten minutes before finally reaching Yellow Street, then had to walk for twenty more to reach their destination.

"This is it," Nathan gestured to one of the complexes of apartment flats across the street. "Gerald's place is up top."

The seventeen-year-old led the others across the street and into the complex.

"May I help you?" the woman sitting behind the front reception desk asked in the voice of someone who had said the same thing for too long. She, like every other person Robin had run across, seemed to dismiss the fact that he had a comatose teenager slung over his shoulder. She'd probably seen many more bizarre things in her lifetime anyway.

"No, thank you, we're visiting a friend," Jess replied as Nathan called the elevator. It dinged and the doors slid open. The companions stood aside and allowed an elderly man with a cane to plod out before piling inside themselves.

The elevator rose all the way to the top of the apartment complex, coming to a stop and opening its doors, allowing its passengers to file out into the hallway.

"Which one is he in?" Jess asked. "I don't want to go around knocking at every door if I can't help it."

Nathan shrugged. "Give me the lantern," he said to Sean coolly, taking the small, handheld halogen lantern from the red-haired fifteen-year-old. He held it up to the closest door, but noticed nothing different. Same for the next three doors down the hall, but at the fourth door, something was different. There was a light engraving on the fourth door down which the light cast a faint shadow off of.

Nathan traced the shape of the engraving which the shadows revealed with his free hand. "The All-Seeing Eye…" he murmured. "This is it."

"Hey, Gerald! Open up; it's us!" Jess hollered, pounding on the door.

A few seconds passed before the lock clicked as it was slid away and the door opened, revealing an older man in his fifties, short, balding, slightly overweight. He looked more like a grandfather or a professor than an Illuminati Watchman. "Well shoot me twice and call me grandpa, you actually made it out of Mire City okay…" the man, who could only be Gerald, observed. His face broke out into a radiant smile as he stood to the side. "Well, don't just stand there like a bunch of awestruck hooligans; get inside!"

The four adolescents filed into the flat one by one. Gerald closed and locked the entrance behind them. "How's he doing?" the Watchman gestured to Blaze, who Robin had laid out on an open cough.

Jess wordlessly lifted Blaze's shirt and showed Gerald the ugly symptoms of the poison from the laced bullet doing its work. The bullet holes were partially scabbed over now, but they were starting to ooze and the green spider web of the infection was growing ever larger.

Gerald sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. "Jesus H…it was a laced bullet wasn't it?"

"Yeah," Jess replied.

"I've never seen this strain before…must be something new."

"How soon can you get us to Portus Illuminatus?" Jess asked abruptly, delving straight to the heart of the matter. "Blaze's life depends on your answer."

Gerald let out a small sigh, thinking. "I…maybe…I have an old pelican hidden out in the countryside, so we could probably get going first thing in the morning. It has to be during the day; officials ask fewer questions about ships in daylight than they do about ones they cannot see."

Jess, seeing that it was the best Gerald could do, gave a nod and moved off to one of the tables by an open window.

Gerald straightened his shirt and adjusted his spectacles. He hurried into his kitchen and returned with a basket of steaming bread rolls and a platter of sandwich makings. He set them down at the table Jess was sitting at and invited everyone to help themselves before sitting down himself. "It's not that I _didn't_ think you'd be able to escape Mire City," the older man started with a mouth full of bread, "but _believing_ it is one thing and actually _seeing_ it happen now is quite another. Almost like knowing that a smaller person could beat up a larger person, but still being somewhat surprised when it actually happens. Ah well, I'm not complaining…I've earned my right to ramble. So," the Watchman readjusted his spectacles and regarded Robin, who was tearing into one of the homemade rolls with almost animalistic hunger, with a curious gaze. "You must be Robin Ambrose."

"You know me?" Robin paused to answer Gerald's question, sounding slightly surprised.

"You'd be surprised how many people in this neck of the woods know your name," Gerald informed the twelve-year-old. "You are terribly important to the Magistarium and the Tirque…and because of that, you are important to us as well." Robin noticed a note of something in Gerald's voice...sadness...or was it guilt?

"Do you know what they want with me?"

Gerald gave a slight nod. "Yes…yes, I do, but don't ask me to tell you, because I won't. The only one who can tell you is the Illuminatus, our leader, and you'll meet him in a few days when we reach Portus Illuminatus, our city."

"Is it bad?" Robin tried again, not expecting much, but hoping for anything.

"Oh, yeah…_real_ bad…consider your ignorance a blessing," Gerald murmured. He began to converse with Nathan and Jess, ending that train of conversation. The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Robin did not sleep; he had had his fill on the train, instead he just sat by the window and gazed out at the night. The hours slid by until the eastern horizon began to glow with the light of early morning.

Gerald, recently woken from a restful night's sleep, laid a hand on Robin's shoulder from behind, startling the twelve-year-old out of his reverie. "It's time to go, Robin," the Watchman said. "We need to get to Portus Illuminatus as soon as possible, and that means leaving now."

"You'll love it there," Nathan hummed. "Most outsiders usually are speechless when they see our city for the first time."

"Where is it?" Robin asked.

It was Jess's turn to let out a chuckle. "Far away, in a hot place."

"Hot?"

"Volcanoes," Gerald interjected, pulling a cloth messenger bag over his shoulder and heading for the door. "Lots and lots of volcanoes."


	31. Chapter 30: Just a Few More Questions

Chapter Thirty: Just a Few _More_ Questions

**1839 Hours, September 14, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys City, Tethys Region, Terra Firma**

The drive back to Tethys City from San Anselma took an additional day, but thankfully there was no car trouble this time around. Idek Tirpolitz had welcomed Alex and Sam Ambrose back with a mixture of gratitude and awe when they returned from their mission.

The Magisterial Governor of San Anselma, a greedy, corrupt individual named Jessup Gendarme, had been causing a lot of trouble to the organization run by Percival Wellington Blackmoore. In exchange for information on Robin Ambrose's kidnappers, Mr. Blackmoore ordered Governor Gendarme's death.

Alex had obliged him and carried out the deed, sniping the Magisterial Governor of San Anselma from over a mile away and fulfilling his end of the bargain.

Alex and Sam had left San Anselma the next morning in Blackmoore's loaned civilian warthog, spent the day on the road, and were only now just arriving back in Tethys City, the largest city on the planet. Alex let out a sigh of relief once the metropolitan skyline crested over the horizon. "Finally…" he breathed.

"That Blackmoore's information _better_ be good…" Sam murmured as Alex pressed the gas a little more, accelerating towards the approaching city. "We've paid for it with blood."

"The man was a pig, Sam, you know that," Alex replied. He had foreseen a conversation something like this coming in the near-future, but hadn't really dwelt much upon it. "The city's much better off without him anyway."

"Now you're playing God, deciding who should and shouldn't die," Sam retorted, finally voicing her pent-up misgivings about the mission. "You didn't feel anything different about this?"

"There _was_ nothing different about this," Alex snapped, pressing the gas a bit more. "We've both killed thousands during the war without having any misgivings."

"Not like this," Sam persisted, refusing to let go of this argument. "During the war, we killed thousands, yes, but we did so because if we hadn't killed them, they would have killed _us_ in a heartbeat. This was different from the war, this was assassination. It's a world apart."

"No, the only difference is that the one who told us to aim our guns and shoot was a mobster instead of a general," Alex countered. "If we hadn't done it, we would be no closer to finding Robin's murderers."

"Even if you find them and kill them, what then?" Sam sighed, getting to the meat of the matter, the real reason why she was there with Alex. "If you think you'll feel any sense of satisfaction once you hunt them down and end them, you'd be right…but only for a short time. The satisfaction only lasts so long…what happens when it wears away? You will never find peace if you do that. Not with the world, not with me, not with yourself."

Alex didn't answer. He kept his gaze glued to the windshield and kept the warthog moving at its current speed, weaving his way past other vehicles on the highway.

Eventually, the highway ran through the outskirts of Tethys and into the metropolis itself. Alex turned off at the exit leading to the district they needed to go to. His mind was conflicted mess. Sam was right; no matter how much he denied it, he knew that she was right. The assassination _had_ felt different. But who was she to lecture him about revenge? Didn't she feel any anger at all at her son's death?

_Of course she does_…Alex shook his head, trying to make sense of it all. If his wife felt that about Robin's death, how could she _not_ want to hunt down and kill the ones who had done it in the worst way imaginable?

Alex shook his head again, dispelling those troubling thoughts. Now was not the time. He kept on driving through the streets for another hour until they finally arrived on a familiar street with occupied and unused warehouses lining its sidewalks. He pulled into the open garage of the warehouse which was his destination and killed the engine.

A man dressed in a heavy black greatcoat detached himself from the shadows, walking up to the Ambroses and greeting them with a nod. "I take it your mission was a success?" John Mansfield asked, climbing into the car and restarting it.

Sam gave only a nod in reply.

Mansfield's face broke out in a smile. "Well I'll be damned…to tell you the truth, I really didn't think anyone could pull that off, but my hat is forever off to you." The mobster hit the gas and pulled the car away, probably taking it to its appropriate spot.

Sam and Alex entered the rest of the warehouse through a back door. News traveled fast in Blackmoore's organization, and their faces weren't unknown. Because of this, they were not challenged.

The warehouse was not an empty storage shack, but it was a large, renovated complex, a hybrid of an office building and a military command post. Instead of a huge storage space which would normally be filled with crates, the warehouse had been filled with hallways and rooms, all of them set on several different levels.

Dozens of men and women, and even a few teenagers, all of them part of Blackmoore's organization, lived in the place, and the Ambroses passed by many of them. When Sam asked a man where Blackmoore was, he directed them down a flight of stairs and to a door at the end of a corridor two sections over.

Sam and Alex followed the man's directions and came to the indicated door. Alex pushed it open and walked through. They were in a large room with an unpleasant odor permeating throughout its expanse. Alex wrinkled his nose and saw why; this room was really a large sewer pipe. The warehouses above must have been built over the water and sewage system, making a part of their basements parts of the sewage system.

Turns out, having an open sewer line running through your headquarters can be convenient in a somewhat sick way.

A man was tied down in a small chair next to the running water. He was dripping wet, soaked in gasoline, and babbling incoherently. Standing in front of him was none other than Percival Wellington Blackmoore, dressed in a three-piece charcoal suit, complete with a crimson tie. Two other men, one tall and dark-skinned, the other shorter with a crooked nose, flanked him, watching with indifferent expressions.

Mr. Blackmoore reached into his pocket and took out a lighter and a cigarette. He leaned down, lit the cigarette, and blew the smoke into the bound man's face. "You collaborated with the Paladins, Mister Carter. You are the reason three of my men are now dead," Blackmoore informed the man in a cold voice.

The man in the chair kept yammering on in gibberish. He was out of his mind.

Blackmoore said nothing more, seeing no need to continue the conversation. He calmly put his lighter away and finished his cigarette. "I am extremely disappointed in you, Mr. Carter, _extremely_ disappointed. I'm sure you realize that. Soon, others will as well, and you shall be their example." He then took his cigarette stump, which was still glowing red, and casually tossed it onto the man in the chair.

The glowing cigarette caught and ignited the gasoline the man was soaked in, turning him into a human torch within seconds. Hideous screams filled the room as the man slowly began the transformation from a man to a charred husk. Alex and Sam's stomachs did flip-flops as the acrid smell of burnt flesh wafted over them.

Blackmoore looked up and seemed to notice them for the first time. He held up a finger and returned his attention to the burning man. He reached into his jacket and drew out a small antique, pearl-handled colt sidearm. He aimed it and fired, striking the man right between the eyes. The screams ceased, though the sickening crackling and popping sounds of the flames doing their work still filled the room.

Blackmoore nodded to the two men before moving away, approaching Alex and Sam. "Welcome back, my friends," he said jovially with a large smile, ushering his visitors back into the corridor and closing the door behind himself. Alex caught a glimpse of the two other men pushing the still-burning corpse of the man into the rushing water of the sewer line before the door closed.

"Please excuse me; you arrived at a slightly trying time. I believe Mister Carter has discovered the hard way that smoking kills…but that is not business cut out for conversation." Blackmoore led Alex and Sam back to his study, the antiquated room where he and Alex had first met and brokered their deal. He walked around behind his desk and opened a cabinet under it, taking out a bottle of brandy. Sam and Alex declined politely, so he poured only a single glass for himself. After taking a small drought, he sat down, sighing contentedly. "Nothing like a good spot of brandy to warm the cockles after a hard day's work. Now then, back to business. You have my congratulations and my most sincere thanks; Idek Tirpolitz contacted me earlier today and informed me of the mission's success. Jessup Gendarme is dead and the Magistarium is really working up a whirlwind because of it. However, my endeavors in San Anselma may now continue as they used to."

"You said you had information on Shade Branch?" Alex asked finally, his patience nearing zero.

Blackmoore nodded. "I have information, yes, but maybe not what you were hoping for. You see, I do not know anything about Shade Branch myself per se, but I know someone who does…although you'll need to work to get the answers out of him."

"Who is it?"

"His name is Archibald Melmot, and he is a Magisterial Inquisitor."

Alex's expression remained static. "You're saying that I have to kidnap a high-ranking Magisterial official? That was not part of our deal."

"After managing to kill an untouchable governor without the slightest bit of trouble, I'm surprised that you would consider this an obstacle," Blackmoore chuckled mildly, taking another sip of brandy. "You could bring him here and interrogate him in one of my rooms if you acted now. Do you want the information or not?"

Alex let out a weary sigh.

* * *

The Inquisitor was walking home today. The rain was light this evening and he did not think he could stand having to be ferried in the stuffy transport car again without having his mind leap out the window.

Archibald Melmot was a meticulous man. His suit was perfect, his hair carefully combed and slicked back, his shoes unblemished, and his teeth perfectly straight and white. He did not seem like much at first glance, but beneath the glossy veneer, he was one of the most dangerous men in the city of Tethys. Not to say that he was the toughest or the strongest or the meanest, but he was one of the most dangerous nonetheless.

The pedestrians parted before him like the Red Sea, none of them desiring to catch his attention. He did not care. They were like ants to him, mindless drones buzzing along on their pointless lives, none of them of any importance.

Inquisitor Melmot reached his street as night was beginning to fall and the streets became empty. He dug deep into his inside pocket as he walked up to his home's front entrance, drawing out a jangling set of keys. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it, but got no further.

A black shape dropped down off of the porch's roof from behind, making an ever-so-slight creak as it landed. Melmot whipped around and managed to raise his hands up halfway in self-defense before the black figure struck, landing a sharp blow to the Inquisitor's head.

An explosion of pain rushed through Melmot's skull, followed by an extreme sense of wooziness, and then darkness.

* * *

His head was still aching when he came to. Melmot cracked open his eyes and peeked around himself, but the room he was in was pitch-black. He couldn't see a thing. He was sitting down in a chair, that much he could tell. He tried to get up, but was stopped by the ropes tying his arms and legs to the frame. Bound and blind; not a good combination.

"Hello, Mr. Melmot," a clear voice cut through the darkness and the silence. "It is good to see you awake."

A blindingly bright white light snapped on suddenly, shining right into Melmot's face. The Inquisitor screwed his eyes shut, letting out a faint grunt of pain as his retinas were attacked. When he was finally able to open his eyes again, he found that he was in a small room, similar to one of the interrogation rooms from a police station, except without the table. He was seated in the center of the room, which was lined with countertops filled with equipment and devices.

A fair-haired, thinly-built young man of medium height with piercing blue eyes was leaning in the corner, regarding him like a specimen under a microscope.

"Who the hell are you?" Melmot asked, turning to face the man. "Where am I? What do you want?"

"I can answer your first and third questions," the man straightened up and pulled up another chair, sitting down opposite of the Inquisitor. "You can call me Alex, and what I want from you is simple: information. Nothing more. I ask, you answer, simple as that. If you cooperate, then you get to return to your life without any complications. You _don't_ cooperate…well, then we'll have a problem."

Melmot said nothing as Alex crossed over to the counter and picked up a short silver rod. He pressed a button on the handle and it began to hum and crackle with electricity.

"Now then," Alex returned to his seat, pulling it up so that he was almost right in Melmot's face. "Over a month ago, my son was kidnapped by your people. Just over a week ago, those same people murdered him. I'm going to ask you who they were and you are going to tell me. First question; what can you tell me about Shade Branch?"

Melmot's eyes widened in shock. "How…how can you possibly know about Shade Branch?! Only a select handful of-"

Alex hefted the shock-baton and jabbed the Inquisitor in the ribs. The electricity made a crackling sound as it dispersed through the bound man's body. Melmot let out an involuntary scream at the shock, the pain reaching his mouth before his mind.

"I forgot to mention the last rule," Alex added, twirling the baton between his fingers like a drum major in a parade, "Speak only when spoken to, and no rambling. What you were just doing there, that was rambling. It does not matter _how_ I know about Shade Branch; the only thing you should care about is telling me what I asked you to tell me. What do you know about them?"

"That is classified informa-AGH!"

Alex pulled the baton away again. A slight burn mark had been left from the second shock, but it was barely visible. "You're rambling again, Mister Melmot," Alex warned. "This baton has plenty of higher settings. If you continue to break my rules, I would be more than happy to raise the current one."

Melmot's response was simple; a glob of spittle directed at Alex's eyes. The spit missed its intended target, striking the Spartan on his cheek instead, but it was still a hit nonetheless.

"You know, I was rather hoping you'd pull something like that," Alex smiled wolfishly, upping the setting on the baton. He thrust the device forward into the Inquisitor's chest and held it there. Melmot began to scream again as the electricity coursed through his body in a never-ending stream of agony.

"Tell me what I want to know!" Alex snapped, pressing the baton in deeper. Melmot still didn't answer. Alex kept the baton pressed down for a full minute before he realized that the Inquisitor had lost consciousness. The Spartan sighed and swore quietly to himself. He deactivated the baton and crossed back over to the counter. He opened one of the sealed medical cabinets and drew out a prepped syringe of adrenaline.

There were far less crude methods of reviving someone in a situation like this, but Alex personally felt that the Inquisitor deserved none of them. He carefully aimed the needle at Melmot's chest and, after counting to three, brought it down, plunging it straight into the Inquisitor's heart.

Melmot's eyes flew open and he snapped awake with a pained shout, staring at the needle in his chest with wide eyes. His breath came in large gasps.

"Please, don't breathe in too much; you'll hyperventilate," Alex advised his subject as he pulled the needle out, tossing it back onto the counter. "I'm sorry Mr. Melmot, but you are not escaping me that easily. Perhaps I should try a different method than electricity…"

Melmot's breathing slowed as he regained control, calming himself down. He said nothing, adopting an impassive expression which gave away little.

Alex let out a small sigh and reached into his jacket pocket. He drew out a small, gleaming combat knife, sharp as a politician's tongue. "They say 'that which does not kill you, makes you stronger'. Perhaps I should put that proverb to the test…losing the use of your arm would not kill you, but would you be stronger for it?" Alex moved the knife and pointed it down to Melmot's Achilles tendon, "Not being able to walk certainly is not fatal either…I think this will do…"

Alex had only just begun to slide the tip of his blade into Melmot's ankle when the Inquisitor finally gave. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what you want, just don't put that in me!"

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Alex's mouth as he withdrew the knife and buried it deep into his jacket. "I'm glad we are now on the same page," he said cheerfully. "I'm listening."

Melmot gave a weary sigh and began to speak. "Shade Branch is a highly classified subdivision of Special Operations. Not many in Spec. Ops even know of its existence. Only the High Chancellor, the Magistrate, and a select few high-ranking individuals, including myself, know of it. It carries out high-risk missions in hostile territory, usually operating in the UNSC. My contact is the quartermaster of Shade Branch, a man named Lorring, and-"

Alex held up a hand. "Okay, I get the idea. Next question. I need information on someone in Shade Branch. I have no doubt your contact keeps you informed of its members. Over a month ago, as you know, my son was kidnapped by a team of operatives from Shade Branch. I need to know the whereabouts of the man who led that team. His name is…" Alex's mind flashed back to his home in Riverside, New York. It had been raining that night. He crept out into the hallway, coming face to face with the black-clothed men and women who were kidnapping his son. The one holding Robin, unconscious in his arms, was their leader. There was a scuffle…a whispered name which his augmented hearing could pick up easily…"O'Riley."

Melmot paused, racking his memory for any recollection of that name. "I don't remember any 'O'Riley'…" he murmured. As Alex started to reach back for his knife, he quickly shouted out, "No, wait! Wait! I don't know anything about anyone in particular in Shade Branch; my contact is not that specific, but I do know about another man. My contact passed me a formal complaint filed by a Captain against one of his men, a man named Holtz, Jacob Holtz. He was part of an operation on Earth a little over a month ago. It had to have been your son's kidnapping."

"What was the complaint?" Alex sidetracked, feeling curious.

"According to the Captain who led the team, who must be this 'O'Riley' you mentioned, he said that Holtz had physically beaten the objective—your son—and nearly injured him before he could be stopped. The complaint asks for an investigation and a reprisal etcetera, etcetera."

Alex filed the information away for future reference. He now had a few things to say to the man who had hurt his son. "Where can I find this Holtz? This is your last question."

Melmot answered without hesitation, nervously eyeing Alex's jacket pocket. "He is under investigation right now, so he is not with the military. He lives on the other side of this city, in the West Pine district. Twenty-first Avenue, Forchester Projects, apartment 13B, sixth floor. There, I gave you your answers, now let me go."

Alex nodded pensively. "You have, and you have my most sincere thanks because of that, but I'm afraid I cannot allow you to return to your job and hunt down me or Mister Blackmoore, who was kind enough to assist me, so…"

"What? Wait, no! No, I swear I won't-"

Alex produced a smaller syringe from inside his jacket and inserted it into Melmot's arm, injecting the milky substance inside into the Inquisitor's system. "You will wake up in three hours with no memory or knowledge of this event. Thank you again, Mister Melmot, and have a good life."

Melmot tried to focus on Alex's face, trying to burn it into his memory, but found that he couldn't concentrate. His mind began to wander and his vision blurred. The Inquisitor let out a small grunt and sigh, giving a barely perceptible shrug. Then, for the second time, he fell into darkness.


	32. Chapter 31: The Enlightened

Chapter Thirty-One: The Enlightened

**2015 Hours, September 18, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Four Days Later)  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Portus Illuminatus, Terra Flammae Subcontinent, Terra Firma**

The past four days had been a blur for Robin Ambrose. The past _week_ had been a blur. From his escape from the Cruciamentum to the safehouses, from there to the trains and Hatcherville…the whole thing seemed like a disjointed stream of flashbacks. It seemed like he had been in the Cruciamentum yesterday, but at the same time it also felt like it had been years ago.

Robin guessed that it was the fact that he was swallowing a _ton_ of knowledge about the Insurrectionists and the Illuminati. It was a whole new world which he had been immersed and tossed into, so it was only natural to feel disjointed for a little while.

Gerald, the Watchman of the Meillan Region, had taken Robin, Jess, Nathan, Sean, and a comatose Blaze onto his old captured pelican dropship which he had kept hidden out in the uninhabited countryside. They had flown for a full day, all the way to the other side of the world, to a continent called Terra Firma. Terra Firma was the largest continent on Nemesis III, and it also contained the largest city, Tethys.

Tethys, or Terra Firma itself, was not their destination, however. They flew over the breadth of the continent to its western extreme; a subcontinent named Terra Flammae, which quite literally translated into 'land of fire'. It was a large expanse of land jutting out into the ocean, and it was completely covered with active volcanoes.

Because the volcanoes were constantly in a state of activity, the whole subcontinent of Terra Flammae existed under a thick, permanent veil of reddish-yellow clouds, clouds too thick for a satellite to see through.

Robin remembered back on the pelican as it was nearing Portus Illuminatus, the hidden city of the Illuminati. Gerald had invited him into the cockpit. "Trust me," the Watchman had said, "you'll want to see this."

The pelican descended into the veil of clouds, and for a while Robin could see nothing except for an orange haze. Gerald was navigating via the ship's sensors. But, after a few minutes, the pelican broke through to the other side of the cloud cover, rewarding him with a wide vista of Terra Flammae. Bubbling, fiery peaks stretched all the way into the distance, separated by chasms and valleys filled with lava flows and bubbling pools and rivers of acid. Robin could see why this region was uninhabited; it was as close of a place to hell as physically possible.

However, there was one spot that stood out like a sore thumb. The pelican was heading towards a huge volcano which took up the majority of the cockpit window's view. The special thing about this volcano was that it was covered in green forests, teeming with wildlife. An island of life in a sea of hell.

"Welcome to Mount Mazama," Gerald gestured to the green mountain. "It is the oldest volcano in this region and has been extinct for millennia. Somehow, don't ask me how because I don't know, but somehow an ecosystem managed to get started here after the volcano had been dead for long enough. It is situated in a high location, so lava flow and discharge from the surrounding peaks does not affect it. After a while, trees began to grow…and, well, here it is now. We brought animals to this place two hundred years ago, and they've made it their home as much as we have. Now…" Gerald manipulated the controls of the pelican, banking to the right and circumventing the mountain.

"Here's our stop," Jess, who had silently entered the cockpit behind Robin, announced.

The pelican arrived at the far side of the mountain. Set in the green, grassy area surrounding the base of and built partially into the slopes of Mount Mazama was a large stone city.

The city was larger, several kilometers across, no mere village or town. Its buildings were simply structured; constructed of a stone substance with open holes instead of windows and curtains for doorways. After all, if you lived among active volcanoes, you never had to worry about going cold. Paved roads ran through the city like any other normal urban area, but there were no cars. At least no civilian cars; there were a few military-grade warthogs patrolling the streets, but no civilian vehicles. People here seemed to get around by foot.

"Welcome, my young friend, to Portus Illuminatus, City of the Enlightened," Jess declared.

"Well, technically 'Portus Illuminatus' means Gate of the Enlightened, but we all say 'city'…has more of a ring, if you ask me," Gerald said, bringing the pelican in for a landing. They descended not towards the city, but towards another town-sized settlement several kilometers away. This town was mechanized; men jogged in formation, calling out cadences, vehicles and tanks moved this way and that, squads trained against each other. This place was a military base.

"It's incredible!" Robin exclaimed, gazing down at the city, "How have you managed to keep a whole city like this hidden, though?"

"Well, the cloud cover obscurs visual satellite imaging," Gerald explained, "and other forms of imaging such as x-ray or radio are scrambled by special installations built around the city. Thermal imaging does not work because of the volcanoes; everything appears red. Ground expeditions into this region are impossible without knowing the safe routes. Aerial expeditions from the Magistarium have also been...dealt with."

Before Gerald could continue, the pelican's COM system began to squawk.

"Unidentified aircraft, this is Camp Geronimo; you are not authorized to land unless you provide identification. You have ten seconds to comply, over," an older voice issued out of the pelican's COM system.

Gerald rolled his eyes and hit the COM. "Is this Larry? Yeah, I know it's you, Larry, I recognize your voice. Come on, who the hell _else_ do you think happens to have an unlicensed, captured/stolen Magisterial dropship in their backyard? I'm coming in, whether you like it or not."

"Well, I'll be damned," the voice on the other end sounded surprised. "Didn't think you'd ever come back around these parts, Gerald. Yeah, you got your clearance; come right in."

"You guys have your own army?" Robin asked, observing the whole military base with curious eyes as Gerald brought the pelican in for a landing.

"Yeah," Gerald replied, hitting the retro thrusters so that the pelican would not smash into the earth, "Pretty capable force, stronger and better than you would be led to believe. Only problem is that, right now, we are sorely outnumbered by the Magisterial armies. Once they all leave for the UNSC invasion, however…"

The pelican landed a few minutes later and Robin had been whisked away by a pair of Illuminati soldiers, dressed in their butternut-colored combat fatigues, to a sort of shower room. A man dressed in a stereotypically white doctor's coat had given him a brief, apologetic smile, and told him that, because of all the places had had been through and because he has never been registered with the Illuminati medical records, there was a high chance of him being susceptible to sickness and spreading it to others. When Robin didn't follow, the man straight-up told him that he had to be completely disinfected.

The soldiers accompanied the twelve-year-old into the showers. He had to completely strip and was given a special soap to carefully wash himself with. The tattered clothes which Robin had been wearing for weeks now were taken away and presumably burned. He then had to thoroughly scrub every inch of his body. If he missed a spot, the doctor would call him out and he would have to do it over. The soldiers watching him didn't help either. They were not really looking at him; their expressions were as rock, their eyes gazing out into space, looking but not seeing. Still, it felt extremely awkward and embarrassing.

Finally, Robin was done and he was given a new pair of black shorts and a dark green t-shirt and was escorted out of the showers to another building where a uniformed man introduced himself as Colonel William McChristie, the highest-ranking officer in the Illuminati armed paramilitary who was not a Coordinator—the Illuminati equivalent of a General.

McChristie assured Robin that he would be taken care of in the base. He then mentioned training, but refused to elaborate, saying that the Illuminatus would explain when he was free.

Robin had been taken to an underground room and placed under watch for several hours, then he was taken to an empty barracks on the edge of camp, more reserved from the daily life of the soldiers in the base.

This is where he found himself now, three days later. Sitting in an empty barracks, staring out the window, bored out of his mind once again. Gerald had stayed for a day before heading back to the Meillan Region. Jess had managed to visit him briefly, but she was technically on duty, serving with her Spec. Ops unit, so she only saw him briefly. Blaze had been whisked away to the nearest hospital in the city the moment Gerald had landed, so he was gone as well, though he would hopefully get better soon.

The city itself was a wonder. It was one of those things in the world which really shouldn't be able to exist, but somehow does. The buildings were made of a simple stone, the roads were mostly cobbled; the city itself looked like it was straight out of the eighteenth or nineteenth century. At the same time, aqueducts of water running all the way from a spring some ways up the slopes of Mount Mazama crisscrossed throughout the town, utilizing Forerunner anti-gravity technology to keep them functioning. A few military warthogs patrolled the streets alongside civilians riding horses and bicycles. The whole cityscape was a combination of ancient and modern technology and life which really should have clashed, but instead they mixed.

As Robin wandered through the city, accompanied by a young soldier named Nestor, he learned a lot about the Illuminati. Like the Magistarium, they were several hundred years old, though the city of Portus Illuminatus was built only a century ago. The Illuminati civilians worked from sunup to sundown. They did not work customary modern jobs; they did work ones from the old days; gunsmiths, blacksmiths for ammunition, farmers, irrigators, cleaners, carpenters, etcetera. The only modern-esque professions were those of the medical and scientific fields. The hospital of Portus Illuminatus was just as advanced and sophisticated as a UNSC military hospital. Scientists were also constantly thinking up newer ways to improve weaponry and power.

The people in Portus Illuminatus had been friendly enough; recognizing him as an outsider and introducing themselves. Even though Portus Illuminatus had a population of over eighty thousand, everyone seemed to know each other, if only by person and not by name.

By the time Robin had been returned to the military base, he had walked over at least half the city. He slept through his second night in the military base and woke up early in the morning. Private Nestor showed up and took into the city for the second time. He spent the greater part of the day exploring the place, under his soldier escort's watchful eye. He could have easily given Nestor the slip, but there was no point in doing so. He was on a green mountain completely surrounded by lava, acid, and completely inhospitable terrain. Where would he go? Spartans can overcome many things, but Mother Nature was not one of them.

After spending the greater part of the day wandering the city, Robin was taken back to the base and told to wait in his barracks. That's where he found himself now, sitting, watching the stars come out, waiting. Waiting for what? He didn't know.

The answer soon came in the form of a knock at the door. Robin jumped out of his cot and walked over to the entrance, opening it. A man in a crisp dress uniform stood outside, waiting. He turned back to the door and gave Robin a friendly nod. "I am Captain Anderson, good to meet you," the officer extended a hand. Robin shook it politely, accompanying the man outside. A military warthog sat in front of the barracks, waiting to take them. "The Illuminatus, our leader, is ready to meet with you," Anderson said as he climbed into the driver's seat. "He will discuss your fate."

"Sounds like fun," Robin hopped into the passenger's seat. Anderson started the ignition and hit the power. The warthog made its way through the base and sped across the few kilometers of land separating the base from the city. The drive was short; the city, while it was by no means small, had no other traffic on the streets, allowing for a very speedy trip.

Anderson drove the warthog through the outskirts and right into the very heart of the city. There were no skyscrapers or tall buildings, but there was one building that looked similar to the ancient Greek Parthenon. It was situated in the center of the city, right in the middle of a large, green, park-like area where civilians strolled around and did other leisure activities. A small group of armed soldiers stood guard around the central building as well, though they didn't look like they saw very much action.

"This is our stop," Captain Anderson pulled up in front of the building and killed the engine. He and Robin got out of the warthog and headed up the front steps of the building, walking through the columns and towards the entrance.

Anderson saluted the two guards at the door. "Good evening, sir," one of the guards returned the salute and pressed a bio-handprint panel set into the wall next to the entrance. Reading and recognizing the guard's palm, the panel flashed white and the entrance hissed open.

Anderson led Robin through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. This building, which actually _was_ called the Parthenon by the Illuminati as well, turned out to be a nexus of advanced technology. There were rooms full of technicians and officers monitoring screens and other operations. The whole place seemed to be like an Illuminati equivalent of HIGHCOM, albeit a much, _much_ smaller equivalent.

"In here," Anderson stopped in front of a large, metal door and stood still. A faint laser snapped on in front of him and scanned his retinas. Obviously satisfied, the laser winked out and the doors hissed open.

The room on the other side was a larger room which looked like a normal meeting room in a business place. A large, formal, rectangular table stretched to the back of the room. Seated around the table were a dozen older men, all of them with graying hair and crisp dress uniforms. Robin observed the silver stars adorning their shoulders. They must be the Coordinators Gerald had mentioned, the Illuminati military equivalents of generals.

There was another man at the table as well. He was dressed in black and gray fatigues and his face was obscured by a blank, expressionless silvery-gray mask. There was a mysterious aura about the masked man, one which commanded respect and awe at the same time. Robin could see it in how the Coordinators acted around the men, subconsciously deferring to him.

"I brought the child here, as ordered, sirs," Anderson announced as he and Robin entered the room. The Coordinators all looked up in unison and regarded the twelve-year-old, all of them considering how much the Magistarium had staked on him, and how much he looked like a normal pre-teenager. It was unnerving for some.

"Thank you, Captain," the man in the mask said, giving Anderson a brief nod. "You may wait outside."

Anderson clicked his heels and offered a quick salute before turning and exiting the room, closing the door behind him.

"This is the one we have been hearing about for so long?" one of the Coordinators asked finally, squinting his eyes to get a better look. "What does the Magistarium want with a child?"

"Calling him a mere 'child' is a mistake, Coordinator Hester," the masked man said to the general who had just spoken. Robin's forehead creased in a slight frown. There was something about the masked man's voice…something…he couldn't put his finger on it. The masked man turned back to Robin and regarded him. "Welcome to our home," he said, "I am the Illuminatus, leader of the Enlightened. And you are Robin Ambrose, cornerstone of the Magistarium's plans, son of Alexander-G004 and Samantha-G113."

"Hey…uh…how do you know my parents' names?" Robin asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

The Illuminatus ignored the question, pressing on with more important matters. "You are very fortunate to be here right now, my young friend, _very_ fortunate. The Magistarium had plans for you…great plans…terrifying plans…the fact that you escaped is remarkable."

"What about Blaze?" Robin interrupted, "Will he live?"

"Mind your tongue, boy!" another one of the Coordinators snapped, but the Illuminatus rose a hand, silencing the man.

"Your friend Blaze is going to be fine," the masked man said. The Illuminatus paused for a second, thinking on something. "Gentlemen, our meeting here is finished. You are all dismissed. Not you, Colonel Robertson, I need you here," he added quickly as the Coordinators all rose and filed out of the room.

A younger, yellow-haired, wiry man with the beginnings of a handlebar mustache remained seated. He was not dressed in a dress uniform. Instead, he wore butternut fatigues like the soldiers back in the military base. A silver eagle-shaped insignia was pinioned onto his lopsided military cap, identifying him as a colonel. The colonel stood up and sat back down next to the Illuminatus, settling back into his seat.

"Robin, this is Colonel Lionel Robertson, head of Illuminati Special Operations," the Illuminatus introduced the younger man sitting next to him before continuing. "Before I continue this conversation, there are several things I must first explain. Let me start by telling you about the Magistarium; a history lesson, if you'd like to call it that. I know it may seem dull, but understanding this world that you are in will go a long way."

"Are you going to tell me why you're wearing a mask?" Robin asked.

"Being the Illuminatus means that you are a symbol for the Illuminati, the man who everyone will rally around. I have had to sacrifice my identity, partially so that the enemy has no knowledge of who I am, and partially because people rally around symbols better than they rally around mortal men," the Illuminatus explained with a sigh. "The mask has its downs…but I pay the price gladly." The masked man settled back and cleared his throat before beginning. "Over four hundred years ago, in the 22nd century, the UNSC underwent one of its most rough patches in history. You see, Humanity was not yet unified in the manner in which it was later, in which it is now. There were…others…other factions of Humanity who disagreed with the UNSC. They were the Frieden, neo-fascists, and the Koslovics, ones who favored extreme communism. These three factions simply could not coexist in the Sol System without blood being spilled. Finally, it came down to an ultimatum; a huge, bloody, conflict which would determine who would stay, and who would be destroyed."

"The Interplanetary Wars," Robin realized. "That's what you're talking about? I learned all about that in my sixth grade history class."

"Then you know of the long, costly battles fought in the South American rainforests, the Jovian Moons around Jupiter, the battles fought on and above Mars and the Moon. But what your sixth grade history class did _not_ tell you is the fact that the Frieden and the Koslovics were _not_ destroyed, as the UNSC was led to believe even to this day. The Interplanetary Wars dealt them a huge blow, yes, but it did not destroy them. The remnants of those two factions united and secretly left the Sol System, fleeing in huge, pre-constructed colony ships with early slipspace capabilities. These ships took the refugees to the other side of the Orion Arm in a five-year long journey. They came across a fertile and habitable world and they landed on it. They built a city and began to live there. As the years went on, their population multiplied and the whole world was soon populated, prompting them to colonize and inhabit other worlds. That first world was Nemesis III…this world. We, the Magistarium, are the remnants of the losing side of the Interplanetary Wars."

Robin took a seat at the other end of the table, taking in this new information. This was knowledge no one in the UNSC knew of, knowledge which no one had even considered to think of. What he was hearing right now was _huge_.

"The early Magistarium was not a bad place to live in. The ruling body was fair and the people productive…but, as with all civilizations, that good life quickly vanished. The difference between the Magistarium and most other civilizations is that, eventually, civilizations overcome themselves and enter new eras of prosperity. Not us. The Magistrate formed several decades after Tethys City was constructed, and they imposed a harsh rule on their subjects. Soon, a High Chancellor position was created and, with the help of the military, life in the Magistarium quickly became desolate. There was no longer any need for intellectuals anymore; such individuals threatened Magisterial rule," the Illuminatus sighed, clearing his throat again and adjusting his posture. "A group of intellectuals; librarians, scientists, professors, philosophers, a large group of them banded together and began to oppose this corrupt and backwards government. At first it was peaceful protest, following the examples of figures such as Mahatma Gandhi. They protested the government's power and its application of that power. They tried to make the people see reason, but people as a mob are stupid, dumb animals…animals who could not be swayed even by the words of the wise. These intellectuals soon called themselves the 'Illuminati', which means the 'Enlightened', and enlightened they were. Despite the docility of the common populace, the arguments and wisdom of those early Illuminati began to take root and spread, forcing the Magistarium to take them seriously. The High Chancellor came down hard on the intellectuals. There were massacres, shootings at protest sites, secret arrests…and so, when peace no longer worked for them, the Illuminati turned violent. They hid themselves away in secluded places, training themselves in the art of fighting and war. You would be surprised at how well a professor can fight with the mind. For two hundred years, the Illuminati fought a disorganized guerrilla war against the Magistarium until, a full century ago, they banded together once more and came across Mount Mazama. There were thousands of them by then, and they raised this city of Portus Illuminatus with their bare hands and the sweat of their backs. All of this modern technology is the result of our scientists and of raids into Magisterial lands. We began to bring in outsiders and our numbers swelled. Now, we are over eighty-thousand strong. Every healthy man and woman between the ages of 17 and 65 are part of our reserve paramilitary, and there are sixteen thousand in our regulars. We train every day and week and month and year, and we prepare ourselves for the day when we can strike back and deal the Magistarium its deathblow."

"Wow…awesome story…" Robin, who had found himself enraptured by the Illuminatus's story, murmured. The masked man's voice had a charisma to it which added a measure of inspiration to his tale. He wasn't simply recounting history, he was _showing_ it. "How does it pertain to me?"

"The Magistarium recently discovered and allied with an advanced race of aliens known as the Tirque, a conglomerate society of intellectual, scientific aliens called Sentia, and brutish, but not savage, warriors called the Hinaptryi. The Tirque wish to rule the galaxy, in a nutshell. They and the Magistarium have a secret weapon, but they cannot use it themselves. They need _you_ for that task."

"Me?!" Robin exclaimed, "They have it all wrong-"

"No, they do not. You are special, unique. You have the open mind of a child combined with the enhanced spirit and mind of a Spartan, both mentally from your upbringing, and physically from your parents' brain mutations they received when they were made into Spartans. Their mutations are a hindrance to them, but in you…in you they combined and did something different, something new, something powerful. You are capable of things no other Human could hope to accomplish. That is why they want you so badly; you alone are capable of using this weapon to destroy the UNSC and their Sangheili allies."

"What is this weapon? Why is it so terrible?"

The Illuminatus held up his hand again, silencing the twelve-year-old. "Consider yourself fortunate for your ignorance. It is best you do not know; the knowledge of such a fact would cloud your judgment," the masked man said, ending that topic then and there.

"You aren't going to return me to my home, are you?" Robin said dejectedly, already knowing the answer before it came out of the Illuminatus's obscured mouth.

"No, we are not. Not yet. If we sent you back, the Magistarium would simply snap you right back up and you would be back where you were two weeks ago. Doomed. However…" the Illuminatus rose and began to pace behind his seat. "However, things are in motion now, things which cannot be moved back. A war is coming; it has already started. A massive fleet is assembled above this planet with one purpose; invading the UNSC. They will take your people by surprise. Even if the Tirque do not get to use their weapon against your countrymen, their fleets combined with the Magistarium's own will pose the UNSC a huge threat. Once the main fleet above leaves, however…this planet will be left virtually defenseless. The Magistrate does not know our strength, and as such it will be taken by surprise. We will leave our haven here and fight our way straight into Tethys City, and we will liberate this world. We will destroy the Magistarium while its armies are away. When that happens, you may go home."

"But that will take weeks, maybe even _months!_" Robin shouted, unable to contain himself any longer. "You just want me to sit here and twiddle my thumbs until I grow a long white beard?!"

Even though he could not see through the mask, Robin was sure the Illuminatus had smiled. "On the contrary, Robin. You have your parents' talents. Keeping you in isolation would be a terrible waste of those talents."

The man with the almost-handlebar mustache, Colonel Robertson, stood up as well, adjusting his cap. "Son, we are going to train you. You will become a soldier. You have met Blaze, Jess Flanagan, and Nathan Allaine, three of my best youth operatives. You will go on raids and ops along with the likes of them. We will teach you to shoot, we will teach you to be stealthy, we will teach you not to hesitate. We will teach you how to _kill_. This war has been going on for too long, and _you,_ my young friend_,_ will be a part of its end."

"Indeed," the Illuminatus nodded for emphasis. "I can see you need time to take all of this in. Take the rest of the night and think on it, and then get a good rest. Tomorrow morning, your training will begin. There is no time to waste. Good luck, Robin Ambrose, to you, and to us all. You may go now."

Robin, feeling dazed and numb, turned and wordlessly left the room.

The Illuminatus gave a low hum, deep in thought.

"Do you think he'll cooperate with us?" Colonel Robertson asked the Illuminati leader after the door hissed shut. "This is what I was afraid of; him not cooperating. If he does not want to help us…it's hard for us to force him to."

"That will not be an issue, Colonel," the Illuminatus replied. He ran a finger down the side of his mask and examined it curiously. He then lowered his hand and straightened up. "I saw it in the boy's eyes. He's already said 'yes', even if he does not yet know it. He will fight...oh, yes, he will fight."


	33. Chapter 32: The Battle of Irivet V

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Battle of Irivet V

**0824 Hours, September 20, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

**UNSC **_**Blood and Iron**_

Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin was impatiently pacing the bridge of the UNSC _Blood and Iron_, one of the newer Macedonion-Class fleet cruisers; large ships designed for Fleet commanders. He had been pacing when the cruiser came out of its two day-long slipspace jump and he now forced himself to sit back down in the command chair.

Irivet V had been a minor UNSC world until the war's end. It had managed to evade the Covenant during the war, making it one of the few UNSC colonies with an already-established population and way of life. By that token, it was also one of the largest colonies, aside from Sigma Octanus IV, Mars, Arcadia, and several others. By now, it had been the Mecca of refugees for a decade, and it already had a blooming population and was, for all intents and purposes, now a main hub.

Transmissions had come in from Irivet V two weeks ago. They had not been very clear, but HIGHCOM had gleaned that the colony world was under attack by the same aliens who had earlier attacked the colonies of Cibola, Asgard, Mannerheim, and Lauralis. Those aliens, according to ONI, called themselves the Tirque. Because of the fact that Irivet V was a main hub, and not some obscure colony—cruel as it might sound—HIGHCOM had sent an entire Fleet to deal with the Insurrectionists there. The Seventh Fleet, Al-Hassin's Fleet, had been mobilized and dispatched to deal with the attack.

Now, the Fleet had dropped out of slipspace, right between Irivet V and its moon, right into the middle of a junkyard of burning husks, ships which were no longer ships, but lifeless debris. There were several of the conical golden ships amongst the wreckage, as well as a couple of UNSC frigates, but most of the destroyed ships were Insurrectionist ones. The small orbital defense grid of Irivet V must have taken the invaders by surprise.

"No one ever mentioned that the Insurrectionists were here as well…" Commander Tomlinson, who was manning the tactical station, murmured. "I'm still detecting several unknown contacts in orbit around the planet…they're bombarding a certain part of it, let me trace their firing patterns…It's Ainsdell, sir, they're bombarding Ainsdell. From the looks of it, most of the city is now rubble."

Admiral Al-Hassin sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. "Lieutenant Sorrel, ping those contacts and get me a visual. Also, contact our ace in the hole and tell him to report here on the double."

The lieutenant at the helm complied, completing his indicated tasks. The viewscreen magnified on the colony world, revealing a dozen vessels which looked like UNSC ships, but were not. Their architecture and structure was different, slightly more advanced.

"Sir, I'm detecting massive ground activity as well," Commander Tomlinson reported as he broadened his scan.

"Contact Admiral Patterson's Battlegroup," Al-Hassin ordered. "I want them to keep these bastards busy while we deploy our marines."

The UNSC Marine 1st Expeditionary Force, under the command of General McCandlish, was attached to the Seventh Fleet. If there was ground fighting to be had, Al-Hassin's first duty was to get the marines planetside before focusing on any problems in space.

Al-Hassin hit the COM panel attached to his command chair and opened up an open channel towards the planet. "Any UNSC ground forces, this is Admiral Al-Hassin of the UNSC Seventh Fleet, please acknowledge, over!" When no reply came, Al-Hassin repeated his transmission, listening for anything. Still hearing nothing, he tried for a third time.

A rush of static interrupted Al-Hassin mid-transmission. It fluctuated briefly before solidifying into a ragged human voice. "Hello? Hello! Never thought I'd be so overjoyed to hear from a damn swabbie!" the voice on the other end said. Al-Hassin and the rest of the bridge crew nodded, smiles and frowns alike on their faces. This man was definitely a marine. "This is Colonel DiMartino, tactical commander of the Irivet Colonial Militia…well, of what's left of it, anyway. The Rebs, they bypassed the orbital defense grid, a dozen or so of their ships and one of the alien vessels! They've all got forces groundside in Ainsdell! They took us by surprise as we were evacing civilians, then-"

"What is your status, Colonel?" Al-Hassan interrupted, wasting no time. Seconds and minutes were pure gold in situations such as this.

"Bad, sir!" DiMartino's response was. "We've been driven back to the Marisle River! We can't withstand another assault; I lost half of my men just trying to get the civilians out of harm's way. We—_what's that, sergeant?_" the Colonel broke off, speaking away from the COM to another man. "_Now?! Fuck_..." DiMartino returned to the COM. "Admiral, the Rebs are hitting us again! I cannot hold this line for very long; please send us help! We cannot afford to lose this position!"

"Acknowledged, Colonel, help is on the way. Hang in there. Seventh Fleet out," Al-Hassin killed the channel. He looked in time to see two tall figures walk onto the bridge from the grav-lift.

They were both impressive to behold; both clad in pure black MJOLNIR Mark VIII armor. They walked up to the admiral and snapped to attention, holding their hands to their expressionless, reflective golden faceplates in a salute. "Sierra-G083 and Sierra-G307 reporting as ordered, sir," the larger Spartan declared.

Although Al-Hassin could not see through the faceplates, he could tell from the larger Spartan's voice that he was African American. If that was so, he must be Tyrone-G083, one of the four Spartans assigned to his ship. He returned the salute. "Master Chief Petty Officer," Al-Hassin used Tyrone's official naval rank. It was a little wordy, but protocol was protocol. "Glad to see Spartans working with us. We're going to need you. The 1st Expeditionary Force is attached to my Fleet, but they will take time to deploy planetside. I was going to issue you and your compatriots your orders, but now I want you to go in feet-first with the ODSTs."

"Sir, may I ask what we will be facing down there?" the other Spartan, Randall was his name, asked.

Al-Hassin shrugged. "I'm sorry, but we have next to zero intel here."

Randall gave his own shrug. "Wouldn't have it any other way," the Spartan said. Though Al-Hassin could not see it, he was sure the Spartan was smiling.

Tyrone and Randall double-timed it back into the lift. "Drop Hangar One," Tyrone said. The voice-activated lift registered the command and whirred to life, rushing its way through the _Blood and Iron's_ depths towards the hangar with the ODST drop pods.

"You contact Moira and Hamid?" Randall asked as the lift got moving.

Tyrone grunted _yes_. "They're on their way. We'll be giving Forrest's Helljumpers a nice little surprise."

A few moments of silence passed between the two old acquaintances before Randall decided to break the quiet. He had not seen his old comrades for years and couldn't resist the chance to fill some of that gap. They were stuck in a lift together for a minute, so what did he have to lose? "So, you do anything interesting after the war?" Randall asked. Most of the Spartans from Gamma Company had never seen each other after they parted ways at the Great War's end. Randall had moved out to one of the colony worlds with the refugees and had not seen anyone from the old days.

"Naw," Tyrone shook his head. "Opened up a shop with an AI friend of mine, settled down in Florida...nothing extravagant, though. I did keep contact with two of our own, though. You remember Alex and Sam?"

Randall snorted, chuckling lightly. "Romeo and Juliet?"

Tyrone smirked, remembering the nickname everyone on Onyx had had for Alex and Sam during their training. "Yep, that's them. They had a son, settled down, started a new life…you should talk to them."

"Had a kid, eh?" Randall cocked an eyebrow, rubbing a spot of dust off of his faceplate. "How long after the war was he born?" he asked casually, but Tyrone noticed a sly undertone along with the question's true meaning.

Tyrone hesitated. "Five months…" he muttered.

Randall hooted with unrestrained laughter at that. "HAH! I knew that would happen, I _knew_ it! Me and everyone else, we were just starting to get a pool going on whether or not they'd do it before the war ended…'course, we were all sent to Earth before we finalized the whole thing. Makes sense, too...four months before the end of the war was November, and that was when you guys were holed up in the Ural Mountains, with nothing to do except-"

Thankfully, the lift reached its destination and hissed open, ending Randall's train of conversation before it could get more in-depth. The two Spartans immediately ceased their conversation. Casual talk was not cut out for this environment. Tyrone also did not feel like talking about the fact that two of his former subordinates had had their way with each other under his very nose during the op in the Ural Mountains. He had visited Alex and Sam several times since the war's end, and their son Robin had been a pretty nice kid, but still...

Not that it mattered anymore. Robin was dead. Tyrone had seen the building he had been imprisoned in turn into a crater with his own two eyes. The Spartan quickly brushed these thoughts from his mind. All they would do was distract him, cause him to make a fatal mistake.

Two more Spartans were waiting in front of the lift. "Took you long enough," the one on the right sighed. Her voice was higher-pitched, but slightly rough and scratchy. After all Moira-G298, the only survivor of her former team, had been through during the war, no one could blame her for having less-than-perfect vocal cords.

"Up yours, Moira, we had to take a detour to the bridge first," Randall retorted, stepping out of the lift. Tyrone grunted with muted laughter, following his three compatriots into the armory in the next room. Hamid-G156 was the fourth Spartan assigned to the Seventh Fleet. Darker-skinned and with a distinct Middle-Eastern accent, Hamid never spoke much, but he was deadly on the battlefield. He, Randall, and Moira all grabbed BR-55 battle rifles from the weapons rack along with magnum sidearms. Tyrone looked along a lower rack for his own prized M90 shotgun. He found it nearly down at the end; recognizing it because it was battered and worn, unlike the shiny, pristine shotguns which lined the rack beside it. He grasped it and hefted it. "Been a while, old friend," he murmured.

The four now-armed Spartans pushed through the doors on the other side of the armory which led right into the drop hangar. Tyrone led the way down the central aisle between the lined up HEV pods. Around twenty ODSTs stood waiting next to their own pods. A cacophony of murmurs and grumbles arose as the Spartans entered, but one of the ODSTs held up a hand and silenced them.

"I am Captain Forrest," the ODST officer introduced himself to the Spartans. The four Spartans snapped to attention and saluted the captain. He returned the salute. "You have our orders from the bridge, so I would like you to do the briefing."

Tyrone relaxed his posture and cleared his throat. "The Insurrectionists managed to slip ground forces onto the planet once the orbital defense grid was neutralized," the Spartan explained qickly, using as few words as possible. Time was of the essence. "They have attacked Ainsdell. Right now, the Colonial Militia are being driven into the Marisle River. Our job is to relieve the pressure on them and to secure a position on the city side of the river. In a nutshell."

"Boys, looks like we're gonna be landing in the middle of the whole thing!" Captain Forrest raised his voice once Tyrone was done. "Gentlemen, _we_ are the cavalry. _We_ are going to be the first help those boys downstairs will be getting. This battle's going to be a big one. Everyone's going planetside. The jarheads and pilots are going to get a nice, comfy, air-conditioned pelican ride down to the surface. You, however, will _not_ be going down that way. Helljumpers! How will you be going down?!"

"Feet-first!" the ODSTs roared in unison, completing one of the age-old ODST pre-battle traditions. Tyrone, Randall, and the other two Spartans gazed at them with great interest. They had to hand it to the ODSTs; even though they couldn't take nearly as much punishment as a Spartan could, they still had just as much guts as the super-soldiers did. Of course, having guts was one of the basic requirements for a job which included dropping through the atmosphere at terminal velocity, through usually-heavy hostile AA fire, into red-hot battle zones in reinforced metal coffins, but these men all qualified with flying colors.

"Load up!" Forrest shouted. The ODSTs all fell out and climbed into their respective pods. The four Spartans crawled into some of the remaining ones which were still empty. Tyrone reached up and sealed the front, strapping himself in and powering the HEV pod up.

Captain Forrest came up outside of his pod and rapped twice on the front viewport. _Ready?_ Tyrone responded with a knock of his own. _Ready_.

The ODST captain did the same with the rest of the prepped pods before climbing into his own. Tyrone forced himself to relax. Even worse than waiting to get blown up on a ship was waiting in one of these pods, knowing that you're about to drop several hundred kilometers to the surface, but not knowing _when_.

Thankfully, the wait was only five or six minutes. Though it still felt like an eternity, it could have been longer. Tyrone felt his pod move, saw the drop hangar vanish behind a sealed armor plate. His pod was moved down through the ship's outer hull and into an open port. For a brief moment, it seemed as if all the universe was laid out below and in front of Tyrone--an endless spherical carpet of blue, green, and brown, with white clouds obscuring some of the world, and an endless star-studded black carpet rolled out beneath it.

The feeling lasted for only a moment. The jolt of the magnetic clamps releasing their hold on the pod jerked Tyrone back to reality. The pod began to fall, though Tyrone did not feel it yet; there was no gravity in space to pull at him. That changed once the pod hit the atmosphere. Flames began to whiff over the viewports as the friction heated the air, eating away at the protective ceramic layer covering the HEV pod's outside. Tyrone could see the twenty-odd other specs of flame which represented his comrades and Captain Forrest's ODSTs all around him, dropping almost in formation like a skydiving team. One of the ODSTs in another pod must have had a mini vidi-disk with music on it, because the hyped-up tones of the Helljumper Anthem immediately began to pulse from the pod's COM system.

Another age-old ODST tradition. The COM was filled with chatter between the ODSTs, trading jabs and vocalizing to the anthem.

Gradually, the view outside of the windows changed from deep, star-studded black with a living carpet spread out below to hazy, navy blue, and then the bright shade of sky.

Tyrone kept a firm gaze on the altitude readout on his left. The second it read '3,000', he punched the HEV pod's drag chute release. The drag chute, a large flap of flexible Titanium-A, was jettisoned from the top of the pod, opening up as it went. Tyrone lurched along with the rest of the pod as the drag chute decelerated it, bringing it down from terminal velocity to fatal. Its job done, the drag chute broke off and released, burning up in the atmosphere.

Once the readout said '900', Tyrone then hit the pod's retro thrusters, small rockets set on the base of the pod which would provide its final deceleration to allow for a safe landing. The rockets fired, throwing Tyrone back into his seat. The cloud cover broke away and Tyrone could see a large city laid out below him, stretching almost as far as the eye could see. Directly below him was a long, winding blue line which was the Marisle River. It ran through the north-eastern edge of the city, dividing the vast majority of the city off from a tiny section on its other side. That river was their destination.

The pod began to shake as it neared the ground, rattling Tyrone's teeth. The Spartan clenched his mouth and braced himself as the altimeter got closer and closer to zero.

The final impact came seconds later—an almighty punch in the body which would have bruised him had he not been wearing heavy armor. The four exit charges in the front of the pod detonated, blowing the pod's front away and allowing the sounds and smells of war to pour in. The restraints automatically released and Tyrone leaped out of the pod, grabbing his M90 as he landed.

The last of the HEVs were landing as Tyrone exited his, coming to the earth with loud impacts. Their hatches blew open in quick succession and soon Tyrone was no longer alone. The other three Spartans and the black-armored figures of the ODSTs quickly took in their surroundings and acted accordingly.

The whole group of drop pods had landed in a four-way intersection. It was not a clean set of two roads bisecting each other; instead it was actually a square-shaped section of ground where the rubble of what used to be the city of Ainsdell was not several stories high.

The Marisle River was visible all the way up the road which ran north-east. Screams, explosions, and the repetitive clatter of weaponsfire could be heard coming from that direction.

Almost as soon as the ODSTs and Spartans hit the ground, a pair of concealed heavy MGs opened up on them, tearing the road to ribbons and clanging off of the HEV pods.

"Move it up!" Captain Forrest shouted. "Towards the river! The militia need our help; get to the river!" The ODSTs had no problem following that order; it meant getting the hell away from those MGs!

The place where the advance force had landed turned out, luckily, to be to the left of the Insurrectionist flank; aside from the heavy machine guns, there were no hostile forces in the immediate area. The ODSTs and Spartans sprinted their way down the road in the direction of the river. They were running for only a minute before they came under fire once more.

"Keep moving!" Forrest spurred his men on. Even if they were under fire, it would be fatal to stop and try to make a stand where they were; cut off from any possible help and without a defensible position.

The surviving colonial militia—some hundred, two hundred men, give or take—had set up what appeared to be a makeshift Alamo position, a little under a quarter of a mile in diameter. They all lined the top of that line of rubble, firing away with everything they had. Tyrone could tell from his first glance that the haphazardly-piled semi-circle of mountains of rubble protecting a command center in the middle was the militia's last resort. They had probably started this battle much further in the city and had been pushed all the way back to the river.

The ODSTs arrived just as their line was beginning to fold. Insurrectionist soldiers clad in gray battle-dress were rushing the line with raw-throated howls, fire erupting from their weapons. There were several enemy warthogs there as well, keeping up a steady stream of fire on the makeshift wall of rubble, hampering the defenders.

Forrest's ODSTs and the Spartans sprinted right through the empty flank of their attack, climbing up the mountains of rubble and sliding down to the other side. They went right through the attack so fast that the attacking Insurrectionists did not have time to react. They couldn't really be blamed; who could expect to have a group of enemy soldiers join their comrades by running in from _behind?_

One of the ODSTs didn't make it over as the warthogs redirected their aim and another was hit in the arm and shoulder, but the rest were unharmed. Tyrone was thrown forward as a stream of heavy rounds struck him from behind. His energy shield sparkled as it absorbed the fire before recharging and disappearing.

Shouts and yells came from the other side of the rubble wall. Insurrectionists in gray began to climb the undefended section which the ODSTs had just traversed. "We'll handle this!" Forrest shouted at the Spartans as they moved to intercept. "Help the militia; they sure as hell could use it!"

Tyrone obeyed instantly. "Moira, Hamid, get over to the center of the line; they're being hit hardest. Randall, on me!"

Tyrone, followed by Randall, ran across the inside of the militia's position to the command post. A group of elderly men and women were working the equipment, along with a tall man dressed in UNSC green. He was a bird colonel, judging by his insignia, and he was heading up the operation. "Sir, are you in command here? We need a sit-rep!" Randall asked the officer.

The colonel nodded. "I'm Colonel DiMartino, CO of…well, of those boys on the rubble out there, the ones who are still alive! Situation's not good; this is our last fallback point! They took us from the west, cutting us off from the bridge and sweeping us up here! We've been holed up here for twenty-four hours, but we're getting low on ammunition and they just keep on coming! I need you on the right flank; the Rebs have got vehicles pressing in down there! Move it!"

Tyrone didn't hesitate. He sprinted with Randall to the section of the rubble line which the Colonel had indicated. Two dozen ragged, exhausted militiamen were prone on their stomachs, armed with M6J carbines and simple magnums. That was the armament for most of the others as well. The Spartans could only marvel at how they had managed to hold out _this_ long.

"Spartans, thank God!" one of them exclaimed as Randall and Tyrone arrived.

"You can thank Him when we're all out of this damn city, _alive!_" another man shouted back.

"Jenkins! Brunner! Less talking, more shooting!" a third man, this one with a scruffy brown beard and three stripes on his armored sleeve, hollered. "Glad you Spartan boys showed up…I can't really think of anything better, short of an armored contingent!"

Tyrone climbed up to the top of the rubble piles. The quarter of a mile-long semi-circle defense of the militia was flush against the river and jutting out onto the street which ran parallel to the river. The buildings across the street were half-destroyed shells, rubble from them littered the street in front, which was also littered with the bodies of Insurrectionists who had tried and failed to break DiMartino's line. It was around a three-hundred-meter stretch between the line and the cover of the buildings and streets, and the Insurrectionist ground forces had to run across every yard of it.

Tyrone's built-in COM began to squawk as another militiaman began to speak into it. "Holy shit! What are those things?!"

Tyrone, Randall, and the militiamen on the right flank all exchanged a unison glance of confusion.

"Who was that? Please repeat your last transmission," DiMartino responded.

The answer came in the form of a deafening howl somewhere further down the line. A group of five monstrous, twenty-foot tall, reptilian, lizard-like…_things_ had appeared off towards the left flank and were beginning to storm the line. They stood on two bipedal legs and had humanoid arms, albeit much larger and heavily muscled ones. They also wore reddish-brown battle armor made of some type of alloy. It seemed to be heavy, but probably felt about as heavy as a pelt of feathers to them. Inhuman howls and roars burst forth from their throats as they leaped on top of the rubble.

Militiamen scattered before them. Those who didn't were reduced to bloody messes.

"What the hell _are_ those things?!?!" a woman yelled as the aliens began their slaughter. The line wavered and finally broke as the militiamen ran before the raging monsters.

"Randall, on me!" Tyrone shouted. He leapt to his feet and sprinted across the semi-circle line to the imperiled section. The five aliens turned to face him and his companion, murder reflecting in their cold, slitted pupils.

The leader leapt forward and received a shell of tungsten buckshot in its face. It was still snarling as it fell and ceased its twitches.

There was the sudden, sharp _**crack**_ of a sniper rifle right afterwards and another one of the aliens pitched over, a smoking hole in the side of its head. That must have been from one of Forrest's men. ODSTs usually had capable snipers. Not superhuman, but still pretty damn good ones.

The three remaining aliens turned away from the fleeing militiamen and faced the two Spartans. _Four_ Spartans; Hamid and Moira had detached themselves from the center of the line and joined their comrades.

The aliens attacked.

Moira caught a blow from the first alien and went flying. She hit the ground, but rolled back onto her feet. Randall tried to block a second blow, but he met a similar fate.

Now shown that these aliens' strength was superior to his own, Tyrone moved cautiously. Despite his sheer size, the dark-skinned super-soldier was still quite agile. He and Hamid ducked and dodged the three aliens' arms and fists in a macabre, almost graceful dance, twisting this way and that, landing sharp blows of their own wherever possible.

A small group of militiamen, relieved by Forrest's Helljumpers, had drawn beads on the aliens. They squeezed off an occasional shot to help the Spartans, but for the most part they could not hit an exposed weak point without endangering Tyrone and Hamid. The aliens were moving pretty fast anyway.

Hamid finally managed to daze one of the aliens by landing a heavy blow on the exposed back of its head as it bent over to strike at Tyrone. Moira, who had recovered her weapon, found herself right in front of the stricken alien. She rose her BR-55 and emptied a three-round burst into its mouth. Orange blood splattered all over the two remaining aliens, enraging them even more.

Randall got back up and rejoined the fight once more. With two Spartans to each alien, the fight was as close to matched as it was going to get.

Eventually the second alien, burdened by hundreds of bullet wounds, finally gave up and collapsed down onto the ground, blood seeping out of its mouth. Hamid raised his armored foot and brought it crashing down upon the wounded alien's skull, cracking it like a walnut. The alien stopped breathing.

The final alien, bitterly recognizing defeat, managed to send Randall flying back into the ground once again before limping off and dragging itself away and back across the street to safety.

Taking advantage of the aliens' distractions, another force of men in gray broke cover from across the street approach and charged the line's weakened right flank. A small number of them stumbled and fell along the way, but the advance held firm.

Tyrone and company were busy holding down a counter-attack on the line's center and couldn't render assistance immediately. Several ODSTs left their posts to help instead.

Tyrone lost track of time. He lost track of how many he killed. Each face was replaced by a new face, and when he snapped that face's neck or emptied a shell into its torso, yet another one appeared. Men in gray crashed into men wearing the casual militia fatigues. Combat knives gleamed as they slid into throats, backs, and chests. Men howled in agony as they were shot or stabbed. Arms flailed, blocking blows and giving them. Enemies mingled with each other, striking with rifle butts and close-quarters attacks.

Tyrone's armor and weapon gradually grew more and more red as the skirmish wore on.

When a militiaman finally cried out "_Warthogs!_" he was dripping with the stuff. The fighting was extremely close quarters, so it could not be helped.

The tide of men in gray quickly abated, rushing back over the rubble line and to the far side of the street. The men in gray were replaced by similarly painted warthogs. The dozen armored Insurrectionist vehicles were kicking up a cloud of dust as they advanced down the west road towards the militia's position.

"Well, shit…" Tyrone muttered darkly. Even _he_ was not certain that he could pull off a fight like this.

The warthogs drew ever nearer. The Spartans could see their turrets begin to rotate as they prepared to open fire.

Colonel DiMartino emerged from the CP and personally began to direct his troops, reforming the militiamen into a new line, set farther back behind the piles of rubble. Captain Forrest did the same for his ODSTs; if anyone was poking anything out when the warthog turrets opened up, they would come down with a severe case of shortened life expectancy.

The axe bit both ways, however. Even if the militia could not raise a head above the line, as long as the warthogs were hitting it, neither could the Insurrectionist Guardsmen. Unless a less-than-sane commissar decided otherwise. Tyrone crossed his fingers and prayed that the opposing commissar was _not_ less-than-sane.

The lead warthog in the column aimed its turret and it blazed to life, raining death and destruction onto the militia's line…then the whole vehicle blew up.

Exclamations and surprised profanity rose up from the militia's position. What the hell happened?! What was that explosion?!

A formation of hornets broke through the clouds, swooping down on the warthog column. The other hornets opened fire, sending duos of guided air-to-ground missiles screaming into the warthogs. Mini-mushroom clouds of flame and smoke ballooned into the sky as the munitions impacted. Half of the warthog column was obliterated in the blink of an eye.

Whoops and cheers rose from the militia as the warthogs were routed. Only two of the Insurrectionist vehicles escaped the hornets' second strike. "This is Gold Squad, 3rd Aerial Wing. Heard you boys could use a little help," the voice of the lead pilot crackled through the universal COM.

"Mighty glad to see you flyboys, make yourselves at home," DiMartino responded.

The hornets broke off and landed somewhere off on the other side of the river. As they departed, several more much-larger albatross heavy dropships broke through the clouds, each of them bearing a large section of a pontoon bridge. As they began to set up a sturdy bridge between the two sides of the river, pelicans began to land all over the area, unloading squads of marines.

The surviving handful lowered their weapons and stood cheering on the mountains of rubble as the marines fanned out and covered the area. "Yeah, get used to running, you fuckers!" the militia sergeant hollered at the fleeing Insurrectionists. "Get used to it; you're gonna be doing a _hell_ of a lot more of it!"

Tyrone relaxed as well, but only temporarily. The Seventh Fleet had pulled through and the First Expeditionary Force was deploying. The cavalry was here…but that meant that the battle was only just beginning. This had been a prelude. An appetizer.

Tyrone let out a weary sigh and gazed out to the south-west at the rest of the ruins of Ainsdell, which stretched as far as the eye could see. There were a hell of a lot of Insurrectionists out there. The force that had just attacked must have only been a company, maybe a battalion. A tiny fraction in a larger army. They hadn't been destroyed or defeated, only beaten back, and it had taken over an hour of hard, raw fighting to do it.

How long would it take to push through a whole city?


	34. Chapter 33: Gods and Generals

_Author's Note_

_Well, after that bad case of writer's block I had before, things seem to be moving along quite nicely right now. Anywho, my English class finally finished reading Michael Shaara's The Killer Angels, a Civil War historical novelization of the Battle of Gettysburg, and one of the best damn books I've ever read. One of my favorite characters was Lewis 'Lothario' Armistead, one of General Pickett's brigade commanders. He dies in Pickett's Charge, and I was extremely, _extremely_ pissed off that he died, so I named one of my characters for him._

_Just so that no one thinks I stole the name._

_Aight, I'll get out of your hair now!_

_-TheAmateur_

* * *

Chapter Thirty-Three: Gods and Generals

**0902 Hours, September 21, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

**Ainsdell City, River District**

The smell was one of the first and foremost things which Lieutenant General Hiroshi Hasegawa noticed as the warthog he was in carried him across the newly-constructed pontoon bridge across the Marisle River to the unfinished II Corps command post. The Corps Commander wrinkled his nose for an instant as that all-too-familiar stench of battle and death wafted across the river towards him, but he quickly donned the passive mask of an experienced observer who had seen and smelled it all before the driver could notice his lapse in concentration.

A shorter individual with graying hair, an almost-handlebar, but oriental, mustache, bushy gray eyebrows, and thin, almond-shaped eyes, Hasegawa was a quiet, reserved man. He had had his fill of war during the Great War with the Covenant. Serving as a major throughout the last decade of the war, then later as a light colonel on Earth, he had been a leading figure in the Battle of Kiev. He had lost his eldest son and his wife to the war, contributing to his quiet demeanor. Most of his friends and his subordinates affectionately called him the 'Old Samurai'. Hasegawa personally didn't mind this moniker. He had been born and raised in Japan by traditionalist parents, learning to live by a small degree of Bushido, the code of honor which had existed in Japan centuries ago.

Unlike most other generals, who were either full of inspiring charisma or possessed an air of authority and purpose, Hasegawa had a serene aura about him. He was as good of a commander, maybe even better, as many other generals, no doubt about it, but his personality differed from the norm.

Currently, Lieutenant General Hasegawa was serving as the commander of the II Corps, the latter two divisions of the First Expeditionary Force.

The driver of the warthog noticed this serene aura as well as he steered the warthog off the bridge and onto the other bank of the river. "Everything alright, sir?!" the lance corporal hollered over the engine.

Hasegawa regarded the young man sitting in the driver's seat next to him. "Quite alright, son," the Corps Commander replied. "The mind of an older man tends to wander more often than it once did."

The lance corporal took his superior's word for it. "We're here, General," he said, pulling the warthog to a stop. Hasegawa climbed out, sliding his helmet, adorned with three silver stars in a horizontal line across the front, over his head and surveying the scene.

The command post was a large collection of tables and portable counters filled with coordination equipment—monitors, COM systems, uplinks, trackers, etc. etc.—operated by technicians. The whole set-up was covered by a heavy camo-pattern canopy. Normally this would have made it stiflingly hot, but it was late autumn in the area of Irivet V which Ainsdell was located in.

"Hiroshi!" Lieutenant General Hasegawa was greeted by a familiar voice. It was his old friend and one of the scant handful who were on a first-name basis with him; Major Paul Fairbanks, his adjutant. He was a taller man with close-cropped, wavy red hair, and an engaging disposition. Hasegawa had known him since the Battle of Emerald Cove in 2542. "Militia boys already set up shop here; we just took over and added a few of our own components in."

Hasegawa nodded approvingly, sweeping a quick glance over the men at work in the CP. "For non-regulars, those militia did an admirable job here."

Major Fairbanks had to agree with that. The militia had been forced to defend this small semi-circle of ground with only a hastily-constructed defense of rubble standing between them and the enemy. With a battalion of ruthless Insurrectionists in front and an uncrossable river to their backs, the inexperienced men and women of the colonial militia had managed to hold out for a full day in this very position before the Seventh Fleet had arrived.

Teams of engineers had also been sent to the area. They were well at work clearing away stray debris and fortifying the defenses. Soon, the quarter of a mile-large semi-circle of ground would be expanded and would resemble a mobile command base. The engineers could work wonders with the terrain.

Hasegawa crossed straight to the table in the center of the CP. It was a holo-surface which was projecting a holographic representation of Ainsdell with red dots representing the projected locations of Insurrectionist units. In that regard, there were red dots and blocks all across the city.

"Any intel yet?" Hasegawa asked.

Fairbanks shook his head. "No, sir. The recon squadrons have only just been sent out. General McCandlish is also going to be giving us a briefing; your two division commanders will be there as well."

Hasegawa nodded. Briefings, while he did not mind them, were still not his cup of tea. It all came with the package deal of wearing stars, though, so Hasegawa never complained.

"What is our current status?" the Japanese General asked next, focusing in on the northeastern end of the map, where blue dots sat. There were more blue dots off to the south of the city—that would be Lieutenant General Wyvern's I Corps—but Hasegawa's force was the one in the northeast.

"Well, we're still deploying, but…" Fairbanks pored over the map alongside his superior. "We've got Morrison's division mostly geared up half a klick to the north; we ran into a small bit of resistance in the area which they were deploying into, but we dealt with the Rebs there quickly. Armistead's division is still deploying to the west; half of his regiments are still coming in from orbit, but they should be here very soon. Now, we have elements of the 57th and the 103rd Regiments from Armistead's division lined up here and here…" Fairbanks tapped two points on the map, "And once the rest of Armistead's men are ready, we should be in a good position to-"

Hasegawa nodded, listening to his adjutant's run-down of the map. Fairbanks explained their position and the speculated positions of the Insurrectionists for another few minutes before Hasegawa held up a hand and asked, "How about supplies?"

Fairbanks gave a dismissive shrug. "As far as I know, supplies are no problem right now. Everyone's got enough ammo and something to shoot with."

Hasegawa gave his own nod. "Good. We must ensure that it remains that way. I will _not_ have another Emerald Cove on my hands."

Fairbanks winced at the mention of Emerald Cove. Though it had been the battle where he had met his friend, it had also been the battle in which Hasegawa's regiment was decimated because of a lack of ammunition due to faulty supply lines. It was understandable for him to be concerned about the supplies _now_, after such a blunder in the past.

For the next half-hour, Fairbanks and Hasegawa discussed the situation in the city before a runner on a mongoose showed up at the CP. The young man dismounted the mongoose and approached Hasegawa and Fairbanks, snapping to attention as he did so. "Lieutenant General Hasegawa, sir," the runner held out a sheaf of paper, saluting once again as Hasegawa took it. "With General McCandlish's compliments, sir."

Hasegawa gave the telegram a brief glance before putting it down and placing his helmet, which he had taken off when he began to observe the map, back onto his head. "The General has arrived," the Japanese man declared, shrugging his coat back on and striding out into the open. "All of the General staff are to report to grid square Lambda-56 for briefing. Keep things running here while I'm away."

Hasegawa hailed the driver who had transported him to the CP and climbed back into a warthog with him, giving him the directions to the briefing. The drive took five minutes, crunching through several blocks of ruins along the riverbank. The destination was a temporary CP for 5th Division, Major General Morrison's unit. Hasegawa's own CP back at the old militia Alamo still needed a lot of work to be brought up to full capacity. McCandlish had probably chosen this location instead for that reason; and if so, Hasegawa was grateful for it.

"Pull up here…this will be fine," Hasegawa gave the driver a quick nod before hopping out of the warthog and making his way through the throngs of technicians setting up shop and marines reporting to their units. Every man close enough to see Hasegawa paused long enough for a quick salute and respectful nod before continuing on his way. Hasegawa acknowledged all of these as he pressed forward towards a canvas tent off to the side of the main CP. Colonel David Natchez, General Morrison's own adjutant, looked up from his work and gave a friendly wave. "Good to see you, sir!" the Colonel, nearly Hasegawa's own age, hollered over.

"And you as well, Colonel," Hasegawa replied. As the Corps Commander continued on his way, he caught sight of another warthog entering the area from the direction Hasegawa himself had come from. Hasegawa squinted and got a good look at the older, gray-streaked brown-haired man in the passenger seat. "Lothario…" Hasegawa murmured, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The warthog pulled up near the main CP and let its passenger hop out. Major General Lothario Armistead had served as the commander of 3rd Division for several years now. He was an energetic man with a colorful military history, and he was also Hasegawa's most trusted subordinate and oldest surviving friend; the two of them went all the way back to Officer Training on the Moon several decades ago. "Fancy seeing you here, old friend," Armistead greeted his commander as he put on his helmet and joined his old friend.

Hasegawa gave a hum of agreement. "Likewise," the Japanese general replied, extending a hand. Armistead clasped it with his own, giving it a firm shake. The two old friends continued on their way to the tent where the briefing was to take place.

The Corps Commander grasped the tent flap and ducked inside. Two other men were already waiting inside for them. There was Major General George Morrison; a slightly younger man with a quiet, almost frosty personality. He was the commander of 5th Division, the other division of Hasegawa's II Corps. The other was General Ian McCandlish, the commander of the entire First Expeditionary Force.

McCandlish was the first to look up from the holo-table and acknowledge the new arrivals. "General Hasegawa, General Armistead," the four-star ranking general greeted the older Japanese man and the younger Division commander, speaking with what seemed to be a northern English accent, but ended up just sounding Scottish. "Good to have ye with us." The quad-star general was a taller man, mid-forties, jet-black hair and a full, trimmed beard. Not the most majestic Human ever to grace the universe, but certainly nowhere near the other end of that particular spectrum either.

George Morrison rose to his feet and crisply saluted his Corps Commander. Calling him a cold man would have been a stretch, but he was still embittered by years of combat. He rarely joined in leisure activities with his peers or subordinates, preferring instead to remain in his shelter or his CP. He never had much to say, but he was still a deadly efficient leader; he wouldn't have been wearing two stars if he wasn't.

"Shall we begin?" Hasegawa took a seat across the small holo-table from McCandlish, taking off his helmet and settling down. Armistead took the last remaining spot.

McCandlish grunted _yes_. The holo-table came to life, projecting a holographic model of Ainsdell on its surface. It was identical to the one in Hasegawa's CP, although much smaller, geared towards the movements of a Division rather than a whole Corps. Red dots and circles representing Insurrectionists were splayed all over the city, and blue ones representing UNSC forces were still concentrated in the northeastern and southern reaches of the city. No major offensive had begun yet.

The image zoomed out to show the city in its entirety. McCandlish cleared his throat and began to speak. "Gentlemen…we have one hell of a fight waitin' for us. According to the colonial militia, a dozen Insurrectionist ships managed to bypass the orbital defenses and land all of their ground forces here…what we're looking at is a city-wide occupation…most of the city has been reduced to ruins from the orbital bombardment, and that will make our job harder by tenfold. Doesn't matter, though…we're going to do it nonetheless," McCandlish reaffirmed his last statement, driving away any lingering doubt from the briefing. "The Rebs have a significant force here, but we still outnumber them by a good amount. Most of their forces were destroyed by the Irivet orbital defenses before they were smashed, so what we're facing here is a reduced force. However, the intel we have says that they are dug in deep and they may have armor. Outnumbered or not, this is _not_ going to be an easy fight."

Hasegawa adjusted his seat as McCandlish continued to outline the situation. Most of what he was hearing was facts he already knew, but it was still General McCandlish's duty to state them.

"Now, General Hasegawa, I've positioned your Corps here…" the blue beacons at the northeast reaches of the city pulsed brightly as McCandlish pointed them out, "And I've put I Corps down in the southern outskirts, the other main weak point in the Insurrectionists' positions," the other blue dots in the south pulsed like their counterparts in the northeast.

Hasegawa leaned forward and studied them intently, ideas stirring in the back of his mind. The Old Samurai had an inkling of what McCandlish was planning.

"What do we have in the way of air support?" General Morrison asked, looking at all angles.

"Air support in the city itself will be superficial," McCandlish replied. "The Rebs have concealed anti-air positions all over Ainsdell and the ruins will provide cover for their armor and personnel. Sending in hornets would result in a waste of men and material and sending in shortswords would probably end up killing as much of our own boys as it would theirs. No, this will be a pure ground operation."

"Could we simply encircle them and prevent them from leaving? They would have to come out sooner or later," Morrison suggested next.

"No," McCandlish shook his head. "We have too few forces to encircle the entire city. If we attempted to do so, our lines would be spread so thin that even a half-hearted Insurrectionist assault, as long as it was concentrated, could break out and sweep us away. The Rebs control the entire western appraoch of the city as well. Our main aim is not to destroy them here; it is to drive them _out_ of the city so that we can destroy them proper in the open moors to the west of here."

Morrison leaned back, his head dipping in an accepting nod.

"What about armor?" Hasegawa spoke up. "Are we pushing into the city without tank or vehicular support?"

McCandlish opened his mouth to answer, but found that he did not have the usual swift reply which he had become used to having as a commanding officer. "I am keeping Lieutenant General Harrington's armored division in reserve. Sending tanks forward first is a recipe for disaster; there are a million places in these ruins to hide a rocket team or an anti-tank landmine. It is going to take a while to get Harrington across the Marisle River anyway. By the time they would be ready to move…well, we cannot wait that long. The Rebs have already dug in pretty well; giving them more time to fortify their positions could prove fatal."

"I have nothing more to ask," Hasegawa leaned back and gave McCandlish a nod.

The quad-star general reached down to his belt and took out a canteen. He popped it open and took a quick swig of the whiskey inside, wetting his throat before continuing. "As I said before, II Corps—you and your men—will be pushing in from the northeast reaches towards here…" McCandlish pointed to a spot on the map. It was Firelso Square; the large, central nexus of the whole of the city. "At the same time, I Corps will be thrusting up from the south. Your men and those of General Wyvern's Corps will be meeting in Firelso Square—a pincer maneuver, so to speak. Doing so would push the Rebs into the far western districts of the city. Any Insurrectionists who remain in the eastern portions of the city will be cut off and easily destroyed. Reaching Firelso Square is critical, General Hasegawa; if your Corps and Wyvern's do not meet in the center, then the Rebs will be immovable. Any further questions?"

Armistead shook his head _no_ and Morrison said nothing. "I believe that is all," Hasegawa spoke for his division commanders.

McCandlish nodded in agreement. "If that's everything, then I must go. I have to give this briefing to General Wyvern and his division commanders in the southern outskirts. In the meantime, ready your units; we will begin this fight tomorrow." He stood up and slid his helmet onto his head. He extended a hand to Armistead, and then to Morrison. After shaking the hands of both division commanders, he held it out to Hasegawa. "General Hasegawa, best of luck to you; you'll need it. Gentlemen, it's been an honor. See you on the other side."

With that, General McCandlish strode out of the tent. The sound of a pelican taking off and heading south could be heard less than a minute later.

Hasegawa put on his helmet as well and headed for the tent flap. "Lothario," he turned to Armistead, "Get back to your division on the double. I want 3rd Division prepped and ready to attack first thing tomorrow morning. Morrison, attend to your division here immediately. The Insurrectionists most likely came prepared, so COM channels may be less than reliable. Make sure that you have constant contact with me; I will _not_ have this battle slip through our fingers because of a miscommunication. Your skills as commanders are much too meritable for a mishap such as that."

"Will that be all, sir?" Major General Morrison asked, formal till the end.

"Yes," Hasegawa nodded, "You both are dismissed."

Morrison snapped another crisp salute before stepping out of the tent.

"If he weren't such a damn good general, I'd be stringing him up by his thumbs until he cracked a smile," Armistead muttered after Morrison left.

"He would be hanging for a very long time," Hasegawa chuckled.

Armistead grunted in sullen agreement. He then gave a small shrug and straightened up, extending a hand to his old friend. "Well, he is what he is; can't change that and no sense in trying to. See you on the other side, old friend."

"And I you," Hasegawa returned the handshake. The older Japanese man followed his old friend outside, where they parted ways by climbing into their separate warthogs.

"Back to the command center, sir?" the young lance corporal asked to be certain.

"Yes," Hasegawa nodded, settling back and saying no more. As the warthog whirred to life and pulled out of Major General Morrison's CP compound, Hasegawa watched the whole spectacle of the ruined city pass him by. Platoons and companies of marines were encamped along the shore road, and they offered the Old Samurai salutes and cheers as he drove by. He returned them, a slight smile curving his mouth in reaction to the attitudes of his men. Twice, sporadic MG fire came from distant ruins and a round or two would hit the road near the vehicle, but nothing came too close.

Hasegawa let out a weary sigh. General McCandlish's plan was the only viable one in this situation, and had Hasegawa been in the Northern Englishman's position he would have done nothing different. But still, an attack like this would take time.

The next few months were definitely going to be long ones.


	35. Chapter 34: Hidden Motives

Chapter Thirty-Four: Hidden Motives

**1650 Hours, September 27, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**En Route to Portus Illuminatus**

_Hello. My name is Liam Cathal O'Riley_. _I am—_was—_the Deputy Director of Shade Branch, and_..._and I_…_um_…_want to_…_join you. So_…_yeah_…_some weather we've been having, eh?_

Liam O'Riley shook his head again for the umpteenth time. He had been going over and over in his head what he could possibly say to the Illuminati once he found them which didn't sound completely awkward. So far, he hadn't quite had any luck yet.

For the past three weeks, Liam O'Riley, Deputy Director of the Shade Branch of Special Operations, had been sitting around his post in his outfit's HQ in Tethys City. He had been dealing with ever-increasing pressure from High Chancellor Delmar to find the Illuminati.

The High Chancellor was a highly charismatic figure—he had to be to control the Magistarium—but amidst all of his traits, he was _not_ patient or logical. Delmar never thought things through; it was he who had decided to strike at the UNSC before the Main Fleet was fully assembled, alerting the UNSC to the Magistarium's existence. One of the basest hinges of the Invasion was the element of surprise; the UNSC had no idea that the Magistarium had even _existed_ before High Chancellor Delmar ordered the attack on Cibola. Now, the UNSC had its Fleets mobilized and ready for battle.

O'Riley let out another frustrated sigh, sitting up in the pilot's chair and checking on the pelican's cockpit read-out. Everything was running normal so far.

The Deputy Director had discreetly left Tethys City under the pretense of following a lead on the whereabouts of the Illuminati. It was the best way to slip away without stirring up suspicion, at least not until he was safely hidden with the Illuminati.

_If they take me_…O'Riley shook his head again, pushing that unpleasant thought from his mind. It was too late to have second thoughts.

Technically, saying that he had a lead on the whereabouts of the Illuminati was not a complete lie; Deputy Director O'Riley already knew where they were located. Unfortunately, all he knew was the exact location on a map, and that location was a place near the centre of the Terra Flammae subcontinent; a violent, volcanic region which was covered with active volcanoes. Lava-flow ran free throughout the entire region, as well as rivers and pools of acidic water. It was an unexplored region as well. The thick clouds blocked any form of satellite imaging, ground expeditions were impossible, and the aerial expeditions which had been sent to Terra Flammae had never returned. They had all lost contact with their handlers in Lawrenceville—the closest city on Terra Firma to the Terra Flammae subcontinent—and disappeared from the face of the earth.

And now, Liam O'Riley was about to go into the very same place which those doomed expeditions had gone. It made sense why those expeditions never returned; the Illuminati, knowing that such expeditions threatened the secrecy and safety of their haven, would never have allowed those expeditions to find Portus Illuminatus and report back. The difference between those expeditions and O'Riley was that O'Riley had no interest in finding out what was in Terra Flammae; he already knew. His life depended on whether or not the separatists were in a good mood. They could just as easily make him disappear as well and lose no sleep over it…

O'Riley checked the map readout on the control panel. His ship was still in the Jethro Region, but he was getting close to the Haragannis Mountains; the mountain range which separated Terra Flammae from the rest of Terra Firma. Once he crossed that, he would be in unknown territory.

The green dot representing his pelican pulsed in the center of the screen, surrounded by a satellite image of Western Terra Firma. The large continent, a sprawl of green and brown and white, took up half of the screen, but there was simply a haze of thick red and yellow clouds where Terra Flammae was located. The Illuminati city hidden therein must have possessed special cloaking equipment because, although the clouds were completely opaque, other electromagnetic forms of observation such as x-ray or radio should have discerned details below the clouds, but instead the beams were always scrambled and the readings came back in gibberish.

All readings, up until now, that is. Neutron radiation, discovered a while ago, was only now beginning to resurface. Deputy Director O'Riley had had a plan to find the Illuminati, one which had been handed to him on a silver platter.

Robin Ambrose.

O'Riley had personally implanted a miniscule neutron radiation tracking device into the back of Robin Ambrose's neck when the child had been incarcerated in the Cruciamentum. O'Riley's plan had been to release the child and allow him to travel to Portus Illuminatus with the tracker, allowing O'Riley to pinpoint the location, notify the High Chancellor and the Director, and secure his job until retirement. The harmless neutron radiation which the tracker emitted was powerful enough to punch through the Illuminati defenses and be picked up by a Magisterial satellite in orbit. To be honest, though, Fate was the one most responsible for this plan's ability to work. It was only after O'Riley had learned that Robin was in a cell with an Illuminati boy that he had hatched this plan. He had known that such a plan would never fly with the higher-ups, so he blew up the Cruciamentum to make it seem like Robin Ambrose had escaped through accident and not design.

And it had worked beautifully. It had still been working beautifully, that is, until the Magisterial Conclave of War which had taken place four days ago. After the Conclave had concluded, the High Chancellor and the five-man Magistrate requested O'Riley and Director Culwynn to remain. They had discussed matters which common ears did not need to hear. They had discussed the fate of Robin Ambrose, what they and the Tirque planned on doing with him once he was recaptured. O'Riley was hearing these plans for the first time.

The Deputy Director still shuddered when he thought of what the Magistarium had in store for that twelve-year-old. If he thought he had been suffering from second thoughts when he had kidnapped Robin nearly two months ago, those bursts of conscience had been nothing compared to what was going through him now. He had not signed up for anything like that.

His mind made up the second the Conclave ended, O'Riley drastically changed his plans. He waited for another three days, quietly took a pelican, and slipped away, leaving a message behind for anyone who thought he had gone missing. It was not completely unheard of, through; Eoin Culwynn, the cold, cruel, intelligent man who was the Director of Shade Branch and O'Riley's immediate superior, was often absent for long periods of time.

That is where he found himself now; flying a pelican straight into the unknown. He wondered if he would be able to see Robin Ambrose again, and what the child's reaction would be. _I owe him a huge apology_…_I've changed, but I had to ruin his life to do it_…

O'Riley lounged in the seat, switching to auto-pilot. He did not get up and sack out in the hold, opting instead to remain in his chair. He did not sleep; it was not yet late enough for slumber, but he did slide into a pensive reverie, staring out the cockpit window and into the approaching banks of red-yellow clouds which heralded the Terra Flammae subcontinent.

After a while the console beeped, alerting O'Riley that his ship was passing over the Haragannis Mountains and into Terra Flammae. After the mountains faded back into the distance, O'Riley straightened up and took back control of the pelican, steering it down and out of the clouds. The sight which greeted him was an utterly inhospitable land. Volcanoes speared the horizon, many of them belching fire out of their pinnacles as O'Riley watched. Lava flows ran freely through the valleys between the volcanoes. The land itself was nothing but burned out, black rock.

How could anything possible exist here?

O'Riley kept on flying towards the place where the tracker in Robin Ambrose said he was, disbelief the foremost feeling in his mind. The disbelief soon faded, replaced with a sense of resignation. This was it, this was the crossroads. Either he found the Illuminati and they allowed him to join, or he would die on this ship. Either way, it did not matter what he did now. _Time to make a call_…

O'Riley interfaced with the pelican's COM system and tinkered around with the inner workings, hacking into the satellite communications database and setting up a shaky link between himself and Shade Branch HQ. "HQ, this is Deputy Director O'Riley broadcasting on a priority-one clearance channel."

There were a few moments of silence before the reply came. "Deputy Director, this is Shade Branch, good to hear from you. What can I-"

"Put me through to the Director immediately," O'Riley interrupted. The dispatcher on the other end of the transmission knew from O'Riley's tone that he would not take 'no' for an answer. In a few moments, there were several clicking noises, then a new voice issued from the COM.

"I thought I told you not to contact me whilst I am away," the cold, honeyed tones of the Director of Shade Branch said in a mild tone, but the true question was clear. _Why the hell are you calling me?_

"Yes, Director, you did," O'Riley admitted. "But this may be the last time you hear from me for a long while."

"Liam…" The Director's voice softened into a dangerously quiet, warning tone. He knew something was amiss and he did not like it, not one bit.

"I never properly thanked you, sir," O'Riley continued. "See, I used to be one of those mindless, indoctrinated drones who inhabit this planet. I bowed down before the Magistarium and did whatever it asked without hesitation or complaint."

The Director remained silent on the other end, an inkling of what was happening beginning to creep into his mind.

"When you sent _me_ to kidnap Robin Ambrose, an innocent child, and bring him up to be tortured, sir, it opened my eyes. You, sir, opened my eyes. And now I know what you are planning on doing with the Ambrose child if you recapture him, and I say that I no longer want anything to do with it. I want nothing more to do with you, I want nothing more to do with the Goddamn Magistarium. Director Culwynn…I've accomplished my task. I have found the Illuminati, but I no longer intend to destroy them."

"_Liam!_" the Director screamed, his voice now shaking with a great rage. O'Riley was unsettled for a moment; he had never seen, or even heard, the Director expressing such emotion.

"Consider this my resignation, _sir_," O'Riley spat out the last word like a curse.

The Director calmed down as O'Riley moved to kill the channel. "You think you have this all figured out, don't you? Quietly slipping away…defecting to a misguided group of rebels…there are things in play here which are well over your head, and you will not realize the full scope of things until it is too late. The-"

The Director's transmission was cut short as O'Riley killed the channel, shutting off the COM. The former Deputy Director leaned back and released a sigh. He had done everything he wanted to do, including repaying the Director in kind. Now, it was all up to Fate.

O'Riley's pelican continued on its flight for another hour before the COM squawked. O'Riley checked the COM, but the incoming transmission was from an unknown channel. "Unidentified dropship, you cannot proceed without proper ID. You will provide us with proper identification or you will be fired upon. You have fifteen seconds to comply," a deep, older voice issued through the COM.

O'Riley hit the COM and opened a channel, saying, "Hold your fire!" the former Deputy Director exclaimed. "I am a friend!"

"Friend or not, if you do not provide us with ID we _will_ shoot you down. We have locked your ship's signature into the targeting computer. You have five seconds to comply."

"If I turn back I'm as good as dead anyways," O'Riley replied, worry beginning to creep into his voice.

There was no response for a few moments, but after a brief silence the dispatcher finally answered. "We have no choice but to fire. Have a good afterlife-" as the dispatcher spoke, there was a commotion in the background. Someone was hollering unintelligibly at the dispatcher. "_What?_" the dispatcher said to another man, speaking away from the COM so that O'Riley could only hear his half of the conversations. "_From the Illuminatus himself?! Are you certain? He has provided no ID; this is _highly_ irregular_..._if you say so, sir_…_alright_," the dispatcher returned his attention to the COM. "Whoever you are, you are _very_ lucky. You are clear to land; coordinates are being transmitted to your ship. I've got my finger on the button, though; try anything fishy, _anything_ at all, and I'll blow you into orbit. Understood?"

"Acknowledged," O'Riley replied, masking the overwhelming tide of relief coursing through him. The exact coordinates of where to land were sent to his ship's guidance systems, providing O'Riley with the exact direction and location. After ten more minutes of flying, the pelican banked around a large volcano and soared over an open stretch of land before spotting a huge abnormality. One of the volcanoes, obviously a long-extinct one, was covered in green forests.

A large, sprawling city was built up at the foot of the mountain. The city seemed to be a curious mix of obsolete and modern architecture and technology, but it also seemed to function like any other normal city. O'Riley's landing vector, however, set him down in a smaller, village-sized settlement several kilometers away from the city. Judging by its appearance, it was some type of military camp. From the looks of things, military activity seemed to be stepping up.

O'Riley was still in awe even as his pelican landed. How long had an entire city, an entire civilization existed here, right under the very nose of the Magistarium? How could the Magistarium have not been able to find it in all that time? The whole thing was mind-boggling.

The moment the rear deployment ramp of the pelican hissed open and lowered itself to the ground, a team of four soldiers clad in butternut fatigues and wielding MA6A assault rifles tromped aboard the pelican, weapons at the ready. After a brief inspection, their leader, a corporal judging from the two stripes on his arms, called out, "Clear!" and the four soldiers relaxed slightly.

O'Riley stepped out of the cockpit, hands above his head. "I'm unarmed," the former Deputy Director said.

The corporal gestured to O'Riley's raised hands. "That won't be necessary. You are to come with us immediately; the Illuminatus has personally requested your presence."

"The what?" O'Riley cocked an eyebrow as the soldiers led him down into a transport warthog.

The three regulars jumped into the back while the corporal climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine, driving the warthog towards the gates. "The Illuminatus; he's our leader. Know one knows who he is; being the Illuminatus requires the person to sacrifice his identity."

"And what in hell could he possibly want with me?"

"Careful," the corporal said in a warning tone. "He does nothing for superficial reasons. He was the one who ordered flight control not to open fire on your ship. When addressing or mentioning him, you would do well to put more respect into your voice."

O'Riley's mouth snapped shut and he remained quiet for the rest of the drive into the city. Thousands of people were out and about this time of day even though rush hour had not yet begun. The people on the streets were making their way about their daily lives in an almost relaxed manner. Many of them would stop and converse with others on the street, others would holler greetings, vendors would exclaim at the top of their lungs to encourage the passing pedestrians to buy their goods; O'Riley shook his head oin wonder. This buzzing nexus of life was the polar opposite of a city in the Magistarium, where the streets were silent and the people were dreary.

The corporal at the wheel noticed O'Riley's reaction as well and gave a little snort of laughter. "Ain't exactly Tethys, is it?"

O'Riley shook his head _no_. "Not by a long-shot…and I mean that as a huge compliment…"

"So…explain something to me…how exactly did you find us? I mean, it's not everyday we get unknown or hostile ships in this region, but you are arguably the first who actually knew where he was going."

O'Riley shrugged, seeing no real reason to keep it hidden anymore. "I planted a tracker on Robin Ambrose while he was imprisoned, and then I followed it here."

The corporal stiffened visibly, but continued his driving. He knew about Robin Ambrose—everyone did; news traveled incredibly fast in the Illuminati city. "You're one of the fuckers who locked him up?" he asked quietly.

"I'm the one who ensured that he could escape," O'Riley said quickly, nipping any hostilities from the solders at the bud. "I couldn't just set him free; the Magistarium would have had my head if I had done that. No, it had to look like an accident…"

"So, _you_ blew up the Cruciamentum…" the corporal put the two and two together to get four, glancing at O'Riley with a new expression. Saying it was respect would have been a lie, but it was pretty close.

O'Riley remained silent, which provided the corporal with his confirmation. The rest of the trip through the city took half an hour, heading straight into the heart of the city and into a large stretch of open, green land, laid out like a park. In the center was a large building which looked exactly like the Parthenon, albeit a modern and advanced Parthenon.

"The Parthenon's the center of the city. The Illuminatus operates there, as do the Coordinators, our generals. It is our center of operations, and it is where you will be meeting our leader. We will accompany you to the entrance."

With that, the corporal pulled the warthog up in front of the Parthenon and killed the engine. The three other soldiers in the back hopped out and joined their leader, walking with O'Riley up the steps in front of the Parthenon. They were more accompanying him rather than guarding him; the former deputy director had more than established that he had no plans of running. Even if he did, where would he go? Mount Mazama, the dead volcano Portus Illuminatus was built on, was completely surrounded by impassable chasms and lava from the adjacent peaks.

The four soldiers stopped at the top of the stairs, unable to continue any further.

"I'll take him from here, corporal; thank you," one of the men standing guard at the door gave the corporal a nod. He was dressed in black, as was his companion standing on the other side of the entrance. They were members of the newly-formed House Guard, a unit of men handpicked by the Illuminatus himself whose duty was to protect the leader of the Illuminati. So far, they had done a commendable job, although the Illuminatus today and all of the previous ones from years past were rarely threatened.

"Of course," the corporal said frostily. He snapped a quick salute to the guardsmen before he, along with his three subordinates, turned on their heels and headed back to their warthog.

O'Riley watched them go, curiosity and interest beginning to stir within him. The Illuminati's common military did not seem to harbor any rosy feelings towards the black-clad House Guards, and it seemed to be a mutual dislike. Very interesting.

The House Guardsman pressed his hand to a bio-panel in the wall next to the entrance. After the system scanned and recognized his palm, the entrance hissed open. "You got things here, Dave?" the man asked as he gestured for O'Riley to step inside.

"Hm? Oh yeah, I'll be fine," the other House Guardsman yawned, leaning back against the wall.

"Right this way, Mister," the guardsman followed O'Riley inside, the entrance hissing closed behind him, and set off down the hallway.

O'Riley followed the man through the labyrinth of corridors and junctions inside and under the Parthenon. They descended several levels until O'Riley was sure they were deep underground. These corridors were empty for the most part; this part of the Parthenon likely would only be used in the event of a threat from above ground. Seeing as there was no such threat right now, the lower levels continued to collect dust.

"Where exactly are you taking me?" O'Riley asked finally, eyeing the empty corridors with a growing measure of confusion. It made no sense why the Illuminatus, important as he was, would hide from the world this deeply.

"Less talking, more walking," the House Guardsmen grunted.

O'Riley was finally led through a heavy door and into what appeared to be a natural cavern. It was illuminated with perpetually-lit plasma torches and tubes. A tunnel was cut into the far end of the cavern with a flat road running into it. Four transport warthogs were parked near the entrance, ready to go at a moment's notice.

This whole place was an escape tunnel.

And it was deserted.

At that point, two thoughts swept through former Deputy Director Liam O'Riley's mind. First; he was not going to meet the Illuminatus, and second; _duck!_

Unfortunately, _duck!_ was the second thought. By the time O'Riley was just beginning to react to the whistling sound coming from behind him, the House Guardsman's baton came crashing into the back of his head. O'Riley was out cold before he hit the floor.

The doors opened again and the Illuminatus strode into the cavern, accompanied by four more House Guardsmen. The first guardsman turned to the masked man and came to a rigid attention. "Sir!"

"There is no need for formalities, Charles," the Illuminatus dismissed the House Guardsman, "you did your job well. Thank you…" the masked man murmured.

The first guardsman, Charles, relaxed and joined his four comrades.

The Illuminatus murmured something as he approached the unconscious O'Riley. He turned the man over onto his back and let out a _tsk_. "Liam Cathal O'Riley…I have been expecting you. What a shame…I always thought you would have potential…" the Illuminatus straightened up and turned back to his men. "This man," he gestured to O'Riley, "knows too much. He knows certain truths which should not be exposed to others' ears, and he is too close to knowing the truth about me."

"What do you want us to do, sir?" one of the other House Guardsmen asked.

The Illuminatus turned to the man, his face and emotions hidden behind the expressionless mask. Only his eyes were visible, but they revealed nothing. "Load him into one of the transports and take him to the prison on the western edge of the city. Ensure that he is placed in complete isolation. Do it quietly; there is no need to arouse suspicions in any unnecessary individuals. Once he is locked up, tell the staff there to hold him for a month. After that, when he is completely forgotten, they have permission to…dispose of him. See to it immediately; I will be personally sending the warden there his orders."

"Yes, sir!" the five guardsmen hollered. Two of them picked up O'Riley and dumped him in the back of the warthog while the rest piled in. The transport hummed to life, then it drove onto the makeshift road and set off down through the tunnel, disappearing from sight in less than a minute, heading off towards the western end of the city.

The Illuminatus, now alone, turned around and headed towards the entrance. "One loose end tied up…" the masked man murmured as he closed the entrance behind him.


	36. Chapter 35: Making a Soldier

Chapter Thirty-Five: Making a Soldier

**1250 Hours, September 27, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Camp Geronimo, near Portus Illuminatus, Terra Flammae Subcontinent**

"Again!" the voice of Master Gunnery Sergeant Friederich Keller screamed into Robin Ambrose's ear.

Robin grabbed the BR-55 battle rifle on the table in front of him and, with deft—but quick—movements; he disassembled the weapon in six seconds flat.

Keller reached into his pocket and drew out a single round of ammunition for the battle rifle and placed it on the table in front of Robin. "At my order, you will reassemble the weapon, load in a single round of ammunition, and then you will turn and fire at the target down the range without hesitating. I will be watching and timing you," Keller set his watch timer to zero and, after a brief pause, shouted, "_Mark!_"

Robin's hands were a blur as he grasped every piece of the disassembled weapon, slotting them into their respective places and locking them in. After a few seconds, he slid the scope into its groove on the top of the stock. He grabbed the single round of ammunition and manually slid it into the firing chamber, locking it in and flicking off the safety.

The twelve-year-old was already standing up as he brought the battle-rifle to his shoulder. He whipped around, facing down the range at the targets, aimed at his designated one—distinguishable by its bright green trim—and squeezed the trigger.

"Time!" Keller stopped his watch and glanced at the number. "9.37 seconds…better than your last time, but it's not hard to improve on garbage. Let's see your accuracy," the sergeant cupped a hand around his mouth and shouted out to the groundskeeper, who was out cleaning and refurbishing another one of the targets. "Hey, Moose! Check the Green for me, will ya?!"

Willard 'Moose' Mousset, an elderly man with a slight accent—French, Robin thought—straightened up and casually flipped Keller the bird. "_Anything_ for _your_ lazy ass, Master Gunns!"

Keller allowed himself a quick chuckle at the groundskeeper's trademark good manners.

The grassy firing range in Camp Geronimo was empty at the moment; most of the active soldiers were out in a battle simulation on the far slopes of Mount Mazama, giving Robin the perfect opportunity to be given weapons training. It had been this way for the past nine days; heavy physical training, or 'PT' for short, every morning at daybreak, then the rest of the late morning in a room with other men training to be officers. There he learned about basic strategies, tactics, reading men through their expressions, voices, and actions, and many other aspects of battle which he had not known existed. In the afternoon, he would hit the firing range until evening, where there would be more PT until the sun went down. After that, there was dinner on good days and nighttime stealth simulations with the instructors on bad days. _Then_ he got to bed, sleeping through what remained of the night before being woken up by Reveille before dawn to start the whole routine over again.

And throughout the entire day, training and supervising him at his side for the whole time, was Master Gunnery Sergeant Keller. He was a tough and merciless man, but he was also a fair man. He would not ask the impossible; he took great care to ask for just a hair short of that. He never relented on the twelve-year-old, and Robin had enough sense not to lash out; with strength like his, he could easily kill the sergeant.

"Just made it inside the innermost ring!" Moose called back from the target Robin had just fired at. "Not the bull's-eye; the one around it!"

Keller let out a grunt. "Not bad…" he reached up to his face and scratched the dark stubble which was beginning to dominate his chin. "Heh…not bad at all… Are you aware of the fact that the target was moved a hundred yards back and several to the right while your back was turned?"

"Was it?" Robin turned back at gazed at the target again, remembering how he had fired his first time compared to his second go. "Oh yeah, I guess you did…I just turned and shot like you told me to; I didn't really notice right then."

Keller let out another harrumph. "You learn pretty damn fast, kid…considering nine days ago you didn't know one end of a rifle from the other; you've learned pretty fast…must be the genes. Whether you want to be or not, you're _definitely_ a soldier…"

"Does this mean I get the rest of the afternoon off?" Robin asked in a hopeful voice.

Keller nearly laughed in the younger boy's face. "My hairy, chiseled ass it does, kid. Just because you've gone and done it well twice doesn't mean you'll do well for the next twenty-eight times today. Get the hell back to your station and disassemble your weapon."

And that was how Robin spent the rest of his afternoon; disassembling and reassembling his battle-rifle, aiming and firing at the target, and disassembling and reassembling some more. The target moved most of the time while his back was turned, but every so often it would remain in the same spot, keeping Robin's mind open, keeping him from sliding into routines. By moving the target every time, it forced him to gauge his shot based on what he immediately saw, not based on how he had fired the previous time. In a firefight, a hostile shooter would not be stationary, so neither was the target.

Just as Robin sat down to disassemble the battle-rifle for the thirty-second time, his routine was interrupted. A mottled green army jeep pulled up outside of the firing range and came to a halt. The person in the driver seat hopped out. He was a shorter person with jet-black hair and fair skin. He was dressed entirely in black as well; black pants, black boots, black t-shirt, and a black jacket. The jacket had a hood which could be pulled over his head, and he also had a dark balaclava which would serve obscure the face, though he wore it around his neck. It was not casual dress; this was how someone dressed when he was going into the field…when he was going into the field and did not want to be seen. He took off the sunglasses obscuring his mischievous blue eyes and flashed Robin a wide smile. He opened the gate to the firing range and approached Keller and Robin.

Robin recognized him in a heartbeat.

"Well, well, well…you guys must be lowering your standards, Master Gunns," Blaze quirked to the Master Gunnery Sergeant, barely suppressing a chuckle.

Robin, who never had been a quick or sharp speaker, was left staring for several moments, his jaw working to say words which he had not yet thought of, before he finally managed to say, "Well, at least I don't look like I'm wearing a Halloween ninja costume from a cheap-"

"Oh, just shut up and hug me already," Blaze rolled his eyes and grabbed Robin, dragging him into a huge, crushing bear hug. Robin returned the embrace with enthusiasm, prompting Blaze to grunt in pain as the younger boy's augmented strength nearly bruised his ribs. "Watch it; I just got _out_ of the hospital!"

"Sorry," Robin released his hold, stepping back and eyeing up his friend. Blaze looked much healthier than he had several weeks ago; there was color in his flesh now, so say the least. "You recovered fast."

"Kick-ass immune system, we go way back," Blaze chuckled. "But yeah, the strain from the laced bullets that I was infected with was actually an _older_ strain which was never formally used by the Magistarium...that explains why we've never seen it before. On the flip side, because it was so obsolete, all it took was for the doctors in the hospital to unleash an apocalypse of antiviral drugs into my body for a few days. I was just cleared for duty yesterday, right before Jess, Nathan, and the rest of their Spec Ops team got back from the Mygall Region…and just in time for your first field op."

"What?!" Robin exclaimed. His eyebrows furrowed in a confused frown as he took in what Blaze meant. "You can't be serious; you guys are sending me into the field after only a _week_ of-"

"There is little we can do to train you here that we have not already done," Master Gunnery Sergeant Keller interrupted gruffly. "You could take a bar of iron and tie it into a knot if you wanted to; doing push-ups or PT won't make you break a sweat, either. Hell, we could probably let you run around the entire perimeter of the forests around Mount Mazama and you _still_ wouldn't break a sweat.

"That's over a hundred miles…" Robin sounded slightly doubtful.

"The point is, the only way for you to be properly trained at a camp like this would be by other Spartans," Keller explained. "And the only Spartans still in existence are probably fighting the Magistarium's forward invasion forces. They've attacked a couple more UNSC colony worlds and a main hub world…but the point is that there _are_ no Spartans here. No one here can match you in strength or speed, so the next best way to train you is to send you in on an operation. Colonel Robertson and the Illuminatus have both agreed that experience will be the best teacher; there will be no arguing this."

Blaze cleared his throat and got back to the matter at hand. "We're gonna be heading out tonight, Master Gunns. I'm here to take Robin off your hands."

"Aight," Keller nodded. "We were just about done here, anyhow. Remember what I've taught you, kid. Don't fuck up and get everyone killed and you'll be just fine."

"Thanks…" Robin muttered, walking off with Blaze and climbing into the jeep.

Blaze hopped back into the driver's seat and started the engine. He hit the power and the jeep began to drive off. "Goin' too fast for ya?"

"Yeah…" Robin sighed. The twelve-year-old laced his fingers back behind his head and relaxed back into his seat, watching the camp pass by and grow more and more distant as Blaze drove the jeep out into the forest. "Yeah…I mean, all I want is to see my mom and dad again, but now they're forcing me to fight and overthrow an entire government… Have you ever had that feeling…that feeling like you're just a pawn? Like people pretend to care about you just because they know you can do a lot for them? Your leaders are better than the Magistrate, don't get me wrong, but I'm just a tool to them. I've only had nine days of rudimentary training, and now suddenly I'm getting tossed right into the thick of things…I don't think I'm ready."

Blaze cocked an eyebrow, glancing at Robin briefly before returning his attention to the roadway. "I…um…meant was I _driving_ too fast for you…but yeah…you have a point."

"Where are we going?"

"Special Operations HQ," Blaze replied. "It's—you guessed it—an underground facility built into the White Shoulder."

"The what?"

Blaze grunted. "Right…keep forgetting you're not from around here. See that white rock face up ahead through the trees?"

Even though the late afternoon light was fading into evening, Robin wouldn't have had any trouble seeing even at nighttime. He looked further ahead, above the treetops of the forest. Sure enough, dead ahead and several thousand feet up the slopes of Mount Mazama, there was a large cliff face which jutted out in a wide overhang, composed of a distinct white rock. "Is that marble?" Robin asked, curious.

"I…" Blaze glanced briefly himself, scratching his head in uncertainty. "That's actually a good question; I don't know. Never really thought about it. Marble comes from limestone, though…and if there were a layer of limestone up there millenia ago, Mount Mazama would have done wonders to morph it when she was an active volcano…interesting…"

Blaze kept his foot pressed down on the power pedal, taking the jeep ever deeper into the forest. There was no actual road or pathway through the forest to Special Operations HQ, but the forest had enough space within itself to allow a smaller transport to drive through without too much trouble. Anything larger would have to be airlifted by a pelican or an albatross dropship.

"How are we going to get all the way up there in this?" Robin asked several minutes later as the slopes of Mount Mazama drew near.

"We're not _driving_ up the slopes, if that's what you're asking," Blaze replied. "There's a cave coming up soon…you'll see." The black-haired thirteen-year-old kept his attention fixed ahead of the jeep for another few minutes. After a little bit, he relaxed a tad and gave an audible yawn. "So…I remember getting shot in the South Mire Ghetto," he began, speaking what had been on his mind for the past few days. "I remember waking up again in the Ghetto Safehouse, then the strain from the laced bullets got into my system. Next thing I know, I'm waking up in the ICU in the hospital in Portus Illuminatus. I've got quite a few gaps to fill in."

Taking the hint, Robin sat up and brushed a stray lock of hair from his eye, recounting everything that had happened since Blaze's downward spiral in the Ghetto Safehouse.

Blaze listened intently with the ear of a seasoned listener. "You guys seriously went through a _sewer?!_" he interrupted at one point, surprise and disgust thickening his usually-light Irish accent.

"_You_ got to ride in a box; Jess and I had to rough it out and actually swim _in_ the…stuff…" Robin shuddered, locking those particular memories away onto a high, dusty shelf. Hopefully he would never have to relive them again in his lifetime. "Then we got to the Northern Safehouse and joined Nathan and Sean…"

Blaze let out a sharp laugh. "Gingersnap was there? That must have blown over well…"

"Ginger?—oh yeah," Robin chuckled as he remembered the collective nickname everyone had for Sean. "Yeah, no one seemed to like him too much…then Nathan told me what happened between him and Jess during that botched mission."

Blaze made a pained face at the mention of the mission which had taken the lives of three of his comrades. "Yeah…I was there on that op…it was pretty bad. Sean's never apologized for his cock-up… Don't you _ever_ feel sorry for that little prick; he doesn't care."

The jeep reached the cave Blaze had mentioned as Robin was describing the train ride into Hatcherville. "Sorry to interrupt the story, but we're here," the thirteen-year-old informed Robin as he pulled up to the cave. He flicked on the jeep's lights and proceeded into the cave, though at a greatly reduced speed.

Stalactites and stalagmites speared up from the ground and down from the cave ceiling respectively, moisture glistening along their length and water dripping off their tips. The cave was wide and tall enough for the ceiling to be obscured by the darkness in some spots. The headlights served only to illuminate the ground right in front of the jeep; the rest of it was swallowed up by the inky blackness of the cave. Even Robin had some trouble seeing through it.

There were thin beams of faint light shining down into the cave once every few blue moons, but they did nothing in the way of helping Robin and Blaze see. Not that it mattered too much, as Blaze already knew where he was going.

After a few minutes, the cave floor turned a different hue. Robin only noticed it because of his augmented retinas; to a normal man who was not looking specifically at the ground's texture, the change would have been impossible to pick up. Blaze, who had been looking for that exact detail, noticed it as well. He pulled the jeep to a stop.

"Hey, it's me!" Blaze called out into the darkness, "Get the laser out and hurry up!"

The cave did not answer vocally. Instead, a thin, green laser beam snapped into existence, coming from a sensor hidden away in a stalactite. It struck Blaze's eye and scanned it briefly before disappearing. Blaze was left blinking his left eye several times, wiping it with his hand. "Damn thing always makes me tear up…"

Whoever was on the other end of that laser must have been satisfied with its readings. The entire discolored section of rock the jeep was on lit up. A soft indigo glow seeped up from the ground and shot up into the ceiling of the cave above. The indigo light intensified and the jeep began to rise up into the air.

The whole setup was a huge grav-lift.

"Uh…" Robin started to say as the jeep rose towards the ceiling, but he swallowed the rest of his sentence when they hit the rock…and went straight through. The twelve-year-old smiled to himself. _A hologram_…

Now out of the cave, the jeep was now rising up through what appeared to be an artificially-dug shaft, extending straight up into darkness. Robin could now see what Blaze meant when he had said that they wouldn't be driving up to the White Shoulder. They were rising up through the base of it right now.

"Never ceases to amaze me how we can manage to raise up places like this, given our location and what we have to work with," Blaze observed, sitting back in his seat and propping his feet up on the dashboard.

"Well, you guys wouldn't be Spec Ops if you _didn't_ have some sort of secret HQ like this, now would you?" Robin pointed out.

"Heh…" Blaze chuckled, conceding with a nod. "And you can't say 'you guys'; you're in Spec Ops, too. What, you thought we were gonna stick you in a tank crew or an infantry squad?"

"Well-"

"Hell no," Blaze interrupted, not allowing Robin to even begin his reply. "Naw, they'll be sending you out on moonlight missions with people like me and Jess. Best training you'll ever get, in my very humble opinion."

"Hmm…" Robin gave an interested hum. "Are all of those teams made up of kids, too?"

Another laugh from Blaze. "Nope, not by a long-shot. It's only rare when a team made up of only youths is sent in for a field mission. No, we work alongside adults."

Robin nodded again thoughtfully, but before he could ask anything else the jeep reached the top of the shaft. It must have been ascending faster than it felt like it had been.

The jeep's headlights reflected off of a metal surface—clearly a large garage-like door. The jeep, now at the top of the grav-lift, having ascended at least a few thousand feet, hovered in the indigo light, no longer moving up, but not moving down. It just hung there.

There was another glow come up from below now. It was different from the soft indigo of the grav-lift; this glow was a harsher bluish-white. Robin peeked over the edge of the passenger side, ignoring the stomach-churning drop, and saw a brilliantly-glowing energy bridge materialize a meter below the jeep. With the bridge in place, the grav-lift deactivated, leaving the bright aura of the bridge the only illumination in the shaft. The jeep, no longer held aloft by the now-absent indigo light, fell down onto the energy bridge a meter below. The vehicle bounced on its suspension when it hit the energy bridge, but was otherwise fine.

The metal door gave a whirring noise and then slowly slid away into the ceiling, revealing a well-lit hangar bay at least a square-mile large. Blaze killed the jeep's lights and hit the power pedal, moving the vehicle forward along the bridge of light and into the hangar. The bridge faded into darkness as the door slid back closed.

The hangar was filled with pelicans, warthogs, and mongooses; all three used most commonly in Spec Ops missions out in the field. Pilots and technicians were hovering around the vehicles like bees around honeycombs, inspecting engines and weapons systems, making repairs, touching up. It was rectangular and at least a square mile large. One of the long sides opened up into the air outside; the red-yellow clouds and the hellish peaks of Terra Flammae were all too visible through the large opening. Blaze said that, although they could see through to the outside, from the outside it would just look like a normal section of cliff face. Now _that_ is an impressive hologram.

Men clad in casual wear also hung around the vehicles, playing poker or simply sleeping. There were a few adolescents mixed in with them as well, partaking in most of the activities of their grown-up counterparts.

"Those are field operatives who are between assignments," Blaze gestured to them as he drove the jeep around the perimeter of the hangar towards another set of double doors set into one of the sides of the hangar. "Usually they can spend a few weeks or months in the city once they complete their last op, so they must be due for another mission soon."

Blaze kept on driving until they reached the doors leading into the rest of the Spec Ops HQ. He pulled the jeep over and shut off the engine, hopping out.

Robin climbed out himself and joined Blaze as he was pushing open one of the doors.

"Come on, this way," Blaze gestured for Robin to follow. The thirteen-year-old operative led Robin down the wide corridor beyond the doors and through several smaller, outlying hallways. On the way, they passed several other operatives, all of whom gave Blaze a handshake or a clap on the back, followed up with exclamations of "Glad to have you back!"

Finally, Blaze stopped in front of a simple steel door labeled 'Briefing'. He pushed it open and invited Robin inside.

The room on the other side of the door was a small, square room with a round table in the center and a holo-screen taking up one of the walls. There were nine individuals sitting around the table. Among them was Jess, whose face lightened considerably when she caught sight of the new arrivals. Nathan and Sean were present as well. There was another youth; a shorter brown-haired boy of fourteen or fifteen. There was also a tall, lean, dark-skinned man with a shaven, shiny scalp; there was a shorter, black-haired woman with a large nose; she sat next to a short, nearly plump Asian man wearing glasses; who in turn sat next to a medium-sized, bright-eyed man with the beginnings of a beard, and last of all; a pale, jumpy man with short yellow hair and acne on his face. He looked like a bag of nerves the way he sat, flitting his gaze all around the room.

Standing up next to the holo-screen was none other than Colonel Lionel Robertson, the head of Special Operations under the Illuminatus. "Glad you both could join us," the colonel nodded to Robin and Blaze before turning back to the nine operatives around the table. "I believe you all are familiar with Blaze, here."

Laughs and smiles came from all around the table—except from Sean, naturally.

"You escaped capture, then, obviously," the large-nosed woman observed, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile.

"Your powers of observation still have yet to fail you, Judith," Blaze agreed, before adding, "Which is good, considering you've always been the team's scout."

"We also have a new arrival today…" Colonel Robertson gestured to Robin. "Robin Ambrose, just out of training. Nine days with Sergeant Keller and he's well ahead of most normal soldiers…so now, the powers that be have deemed that the best way to train him is to send him out with you."

"How is that possible?!" the black man exclaimed. "I mean, I got through Basic alright compared to most of the others, which is why I'm _here_ and everything, but I was never able to fly through it in a few days!"

"Your point is sound, Ishmael," Robertson nodded. He reached into his back and drew out a short iron crowbar which he had brought for specifically this purpose; proving to the operatives that Robin Ambrose was no normal twelve-year-old boy. He tossed the bar to Robin, who caught it, and said, "Impress them."

Robin first flattened out the crowbar by bending back the curved-over bit at the end, giving him a straight rod of iron. He then set both hands at both ends of the bar and, without too much effort apparent on his face or body, tied the metal bar into something resembling a square knot.

Murmurs and impressed whistles arose from the table. "What's your name again, boy?" the black man, Ishmael, asked, surprise and awe softening his voice.

"Robin," the twelve-year-old answered quietly, slightly nervous under the fixed gazes of eleven people.

"Shit…kid's got some skills, I'll give him that…" the man with the scruffy chin chuckled. More murmurs of agreement from the table. Robin's face flushed red with embarrassment at the praise.

"So he can bend metal, _big deal,_" Sean's sardonic, higher-pitched voice cut through the rest of the table. "Can he shoot? Can he listen to orders? Can he not get us all killed?"

"Well, you have all of us beaten in that last category, Gingersnap," the Asian man retorted.

The men and women at the table clearly were not Sean fans either. _Is he hated by _everyone_ here?_ Robin thought to himself. He then shrugged. _Seems that way_… _Considering what he's done_..._wouldn't be too surprised_.

Sean rolled his eyes and fell silent, studying his fingernails.

"How in hell are you able to do shit like that?" the scruffy-chinned, bright-eyed man asked. "I go to the gym nearly every day and _I_ can't even bend a nail."

"It's not physical," the Asian man, who seemed more and more to be the team's technical know-how, said. "Well, it _is_ physical, but it's not natural. He must have been altered at a genetic level…you cannot be a Spartan, can you?"

"Come on, Li, the only living Spartans nowadays would almost be in their thirties," the fourteen or fifteen-year-old youth operative whose name Robin did not know remarked. "This kid probably doesn't even have any hair on his-"

"_Okay_, that's quite enough," Colonel Robertson took back control of the conversation. Even as he was still wondering how he had lost it in the first place, the colonel continued. "Robin Ambrose is the son of two Spartans who fought in the Great War. He has inherited their augmentations; he is strong as hell, he can see in the dark, yah-dee-yah-dee-yah, back to the matter at hand. He will be joining your team for this next mission. I expect he'll learn a lot from you. When we finally strike back at the Magistarium, he'll need to know how to fight. It will be your jobs to ensure that that happens. Anymore questions on that matter?"

There were none. Colonel Robertson told Robin to take a seat. The twelve-year-old sat down next to Jess. She flashed him a warm grin and blew him a kiss. His face flushed scarlet again.

"Now then," Colonel Robertson began, "you lucky devils will be taking a trip to the Jethro Region." The holo-screen behind him came to life and the lights dimmed. A satellite image of Nemesis III and its two main continents—Terra Firma and Terra Occasa—in their entirety appeared. The image zoomed in on the western reaches of Terra Firma. The outlying, obscured spur which was Terra Flammae was visible, but the image zoomed further in, focusing on the land right on the eastern side of the Haragannis Mountains. The Jethro Region.

"Your objective will be a fuel depot on a supply railway located here," a small red dot pulsed on the holo-screen, marking the location of said fuel dump. The image zoomed in far enough to actually see the snaking railways and the fuel dump right next to them. It was a medium-sized facility with armed defenses, but there was nothing overly special about it.

"What's the reason, and don't tell me it's to raise gas prices a few cents," Nathan interjected.

"Not at all," Colonel Robertson smiled again. "Tom Scully, the Watchman of the Jethro Region, has finally gotten confirmation that that dump is actually a weapons development facility. Destroying it would put a dent in the Magistarium's research and development, and it would also make any other facilities start to look over their shoulders in fear. Resources will be poured into shoring up security for other facilities like this...resources which would _not_ be going into the invasion."

The team members took in and digested this information and gazed at the image, getting an idea of the terrain.

"Any sp-specific b-battle-plan?" the jittery young man with the acne and yellow hair spoke with a noticeable stutter.

"No, Eugene, there is not," Robertson replied. "I will be leaving that up to you, Francis; you're the team leader."

The bright-eyed, scruffy man gave a satisfied nod. He very much approved. Colonel Robertson was smart not trying to come up with a strategy from HQ, as the plan would solely hinge upon the location and the time, both of those being elements which could only be taken into account if the planner was actually _at_ the location. The plan could also change at a moment's notice, so it was best not to get used to any fixed course of action.

"You will be provided with high-grade Class-6 thermite explosives," Robertson said.

"Ah, thermite…my favorite…" Ishmael, the bald, dark-skinned man, grinned. "Really gives doing demolitions an energy boost."

"Those explosives should be more than enough needed to knock out that facility," Colonel Robertson continued. "Once the job is done, you will proceed to your extraction point and report back here immediately. Francis," Robertson turned to the scruffy man, "I want you to be observing Robin. When you get back here, the Illuminatus and I would be interested in a report on his performance. Would that be satisfactory?"

Francis inclined his head in a nod. "Yes, sir, I can manage."

Colonel Robertson, having gone through everything relevant to the upcoming mission, wished everyone luck and closed the briefing. The operatives all rose and filed out, all of them, excluding Sean, nodding to Robin on their way out.

Jess and Blaze remained. "Come on, we have to get you prepped before we report to our pelican," Jess told the twelve-year-old. "Good to see you again, by the way."

"This way," Blaze led the way out the door and back through the corridors and into the main hallway leading from the hangar. The threesome turned down a different corridor and followed it all the way to its end, walking into the room at the far end. The room seemed to be a mix of an armory and a locker room. The other operatives from the team were already prepped, so none of them were in there now, but this is where they would normally gear up.

Blaze crossed over to a closed locker and opened it. Inside was a neat stack of black clothing. Black T-shirt, black jacket, black pants, black socks and boots, black balaclava, black gloves; all identical to what Blaze and Jess and all the others were wearing. Blaze picked up the clothing and tossed it to Robin. "Alright, strip and get these on; you're not going into the field in what you're wearing now."

Robin, who had been wearing a 'PT' T-shirt from Camp Geronimo and camo-pattern shorts, let out a quick sigh and obeyed. He quickly stripped down to his boxers and slipped into the black clothing. He stuck the balaclava and gloves into his pockets, tied the jacket around his waist, and finished lacing up his boots before he was done. Jess and Blaze then took him over to the weapons rack, where he selected a shiny battle-rifle, which was as black as his clothing, and a silenced berretta sidearm. There were other weapons on the rack, but the two he had selected were the two that he had practiced the most with. The berretta came with a leg holster which he strapped around his thigh and slid the pistol into, slipping the silencer into a secondary groove next to the gun.

Robin straightened up and walked back over to his two comrades and friends. "Well?"

"You look good in black, you know," Jess mused. "Contrasts with your hair."

Blaze let out a quiet cough while Robin cocked an eyebrow. "Well, maybe the Paladins and guardsmen will stop to take pictures for the magazines before they try to kill me," the twelve-year-old muttered.

Blaze held up his hands. "Hey, I just think you look fine. Black does wonders for most people; adds in an element of badassery…plus we do our ops during the dead of night, so it's also a necessity."

Jess, Blaze, and Robin all left the armory and walked all the way back to the hangar. The rest of the team was already there, loading the last crate of ammunition onto their pelican before climbing in themselves. Last to board was Francis, the bright-eyed, scruffy team leader. He had an MA6A assault rifle strapped over his back and a belt of grenades fastened around his waist. Jess and Blaze both climbed into the pelican, taking their seats and sitting down with the other team members.

The pelican's engines hummed to life and the dropship hovered a meter in the air.

Francis, seeing Robin still on the ground, held out his hand to the boy. "Welcome to the team, Rookie," the team leader said as he hauled the twelve-year-old into the dropship. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet."


	37. Chapter 36: A Midnight Excursion

Chapter Thirty-Six: A Midnight Excursion

**0029 Hours, September 28, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Jethro Region, Terra Firma**

The pelican had been flying for several hours after it had taken off out of the Illuminati Special Operations headquarters complex. The sun had gone down as the Illuminati dropship was crossing the Haragannis Mountains, allowing for a brilliant vista of the Terra Flammae cloud cover in illustrious shades of purple and maroon, rising up into the atmosphere like a majestic, opulent city.

Robin Ambrose was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the pelican's hold, right up next to the edge of the wide-open rear of the dropship. He looked up to the sky. It had been a while since he had seen the open, unobstructed heavens. He had spent too long under the thick red-yellow clouds of Terra Flammae or chained up in an underground cell. The sky was black now; the sun had long since retreated under the western horizon. Helios was off on his coffee-break until morning. Stars had emerged from their hiding places, winking and teasing at those on Nemesis III who were able to see them.

Robin was startled out of his reverie by a soft nudge. "You get any sleep?" It was Jess who had spoken. She was sitting on the very end of one of the benches set into the side of the pelican's hold; not quite up to the edge of the dropship's hold, but close to it.

Robin shook his head, remaining silent. He was still somewhat adjusting to his situation; the whole 'Hey, Robin, you're gonna go on a field trip and blow up a Magisterial research facility' bombshell had been a hard one to swallow. He had already learned a good deal about the Illuminati Spec Ops. For example, none of the operatives ever used their last names. In fact, no one—excluding the youth operatives—actually _knew_ anyone else's last names; it helped to prevent compromising a comrade's identity. With that concept in mind, everyone in the team went only by their first names.

Jess shrugged in response to Robin's reaction. She stood up and slid down onto the floor next to the twelve-year-old. "I couldn't sleep either for my first few ops…" her eyes warmed at the memories which presented themselves to her. "I was…ten…when I was sent on my first field op; even younger than you are now. Hell, if you had grown up in Portus Illuminatus, you probably could have been fighting like me at seven or eight years old. You have very, _very_ unique talents which the Illuminatus and the Coordinators would not want to waste."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Huh?" Jess was caught off-guard by Robin's sudden question.

"Why'd you do it? Why'd you join the Youth subdivision?" Robin asked. "You had the chance for a normal life when you were brought to Portus Illuminatus; why didn't you take it?"

Jess was silent for a minute. The only sounds were the hum of the pelican's engine, the heavy breathing and snores coming from the slumbering operatives in the strike team who were sleeping in the hold as well, and the hushed murmurings coming from the conscious ones, who were sitting in a tight circle, playing some form of card game.

When Jess spoke, she chose her words carefully. "To me, a normal life was working in a munitions factory from sunup to sundown. The place doubled as an orphanage; they would have the orphans working in the factory alongside normal workers. You either learned the way of life there…or you messed up and died. The conditions were horrible…the overseers had these shocksticks set to high enough settings to leave burns when they made contact with skin…anyone who broke the rules or even got a notion of independent thought got to see the overseers. When they came back…_if_ they came back…"

Robin listened intently. He had known that Jess and Blaze had lived in some sort of workhouse, but he had never known the details.

"I never knew who my parents were; no one there did," Jess explained. "I was luckier than Blaze; when I was found on the sidewalk in San Anselma, my name was written on a piece of paper pinned to my shirt. When he was found, there was no name, no form of identification, nothing. His only official name was a number."

"San Anselma?" Robin frowned, spotting an inconsistency. "I thought you and Blaze grew up in Tethys."

"Blaze grew up in a Tethys workhouse, yes, but I grew up in a San Anselma orphanage," Jess clarified. "I was sent to Tethys when I was six—Blaze was seven—and we met in his workhouse. I remember…one of the other older boys there got rough with me in the lunch line-up…Blaze beat the living crap out of him afterwards. The two of us were friends for a good year afterwards…"

"How did you escape?" Robin asked finally, recalling how Jess and Nathan had hinted at some acts Blaze had committed at the time.

"He staged a breakout," Jess replied. "The way he led the children there…he could have been a company commander _here_ if he had such ambitions. Me, him, and a group of ten, fifteen other kids…well, I won't bore you with the details, but we managed to escape onto the factory floor."

The pelican rocked briefly as it passed through an area of slight turbulence, but soon returned to normal. The pilot hollered an apology back to his passengers, but everyone who had been asleep had not woken up from the jolt.

Jess righted herself and got back to her story. "Well, we all got out onto the streets…then the two overseers on the night watch jumped me with their shocksticks. The setting the bastards had those things on…probably would have killed me if not for Blaze. Blaze—crazy, loyal, fierce son of a bitch that he was—grabbed a nail-gun from one of the tool racks next to the entrance and…well...the overseers didn't see it coming, but next thing I know, Blaze is helping me up and the two bastards are lying on the floor with large, size-eight heavy-duty bolts in their brains…" Jess broke off, bringing herself back to the discussion at hand. "That was what a 'normal life' was for me, and it was enough to drive a kid to _murder_. Justified murder, in my opinion, but if _any_ eight-year-old is capable of taking a life like that…then you know something is wrong."

Robin now understood where Jess was coming from. His parents had told him similar stories—leaving out the more dark horrors of war—about how settling down in Riverside had been unnerving at first.

"Blaze already told you how the Illuminati found us…the Magistarium recaptured us a while after we escaped from the orphanage. The prison transport taking us back to the workhouse ended up driving right through an Illuminati ambush…and the rest is history. You know who I am right now; I wasn't much different as a kid. How, after all the…the _crap_ the Magistarium's put me through, am I supposed to just find a family, go to school, and wear dresses and act like everything that happened to me never did? Well, we both know that I couldn't, and that I didn't."

"I guess not…" Robin conceded to her point.

There was another brief moment of silence before Jess asked, "How about you? How did your parents manage to settle down like they did? Wouldn't your government have kept them in the service?"

Robin hummed in agreement. He let out a quick yawn and lay flat on his back, lacing his fingers behind his head as he stared aimlessly up at the ceiling of the pelican. "Well, at the end of the war, some of the crackheads in HIGHCOM tried to keep the surviving Spartans in my mom and dad's company in the Navy, but Lord Hood—he was the Commander in Chief at that time and throughout the war—personally allowed the Spartans to retire to normal lives in the colonies. I can't speak for them, or for my parents, but I do know that all of them joined their company because the Covenant had destroyed their homeworlds."

Jess nodded knowingly. "They would have wanted revenge, even as kids. Would've made them easy to recruit…"

Robin nodded, racking through his memories of conversations he and his parents had had with each other pertaining to the war. They didn't like to talk about it very often, but occasionally they would reminisce…for old time's sake. The best times were when Uncle Tyrone—that's what Robin had called Tyrone-G083 as a kid and it had stuck—came up from Florida to visit; Robin learned a lot of his parents' backstories from him.

"Well, you went through a rough childhood," Robin observed, holding up fingers and ticking them off as he made his respective points. "So did my parents. You wanted revenge, so did my parents. You turned your anger on the ones who hurt you; so did my parents. You do guerrilla strikes and shadow attacks against your enemy; my parents fought for months on end in an all-out war against genocidal aliens trying to, and nearly succeeding in wiping out our whole species. That's where you and my parents differ; after surviving through a Hell like that, a normal life would be like a gift-wrapped present from God," Robin chuckled at the somewhat mediocre analogy, proud of himself for coming up with it anyhow. He scratched a spot on his head and brushed the same stray lock of hair out of his eye which had been troubling him for days now, muttering something under his breath about haircuts. "After the end of the war, my parents were sixteen years old. My mom was pregnant with me, so it's not like she or my dad could have continued working for the military even if they wanted to, which they didn't. They settled down…took a little getting used to for the first few years, but they managed. After all the effort they had put into surviving the war, a payoff like that wasn't too hard to appreciate."

Jess grunted. The slight backdraft blowing into the hold through the open rear hatch was causing her own hair to blow into her eyes, so she reached behind herself and pulled up her hood. "Well, this was…enlightening…" she murmured, laying down on her back as well, staring up at the ceiling alongside the twelve-year-old.

Robin hummed again in agreement.

Jess, unseen by the twelve-year-old, opened and closed her mouth several times, looking for words to express what she was feeling right then. She remembered how Blaze had constantly needled her for her attitude towards Robin. He was right; compared to how she had acted towards most other boys; she had been surprisingly _nice_ to the twelve-year-old. She hadn't noticed it herself at first until Blaze brought it up in the safehouse, but she was actually beginning to—God help her—_like_ the kid. "Anyone ever…um…you know…ask you out before?" she asked finally, the words catching in her throat as they came out. She mentally swore at herself right afterwards. _Stupid_…

"Say again?" Robin's voice almost cracked with surprise. Though Jess didn't know it, the same feelings were going through the twelve-year-old's mind, but he had never even considered that they might be reciprocal.

"Nothing," Jess dismissed herself with a flick of her hand. "Nothing…"

Robin had heard her, though. His heart began to pound a little faster. He wetted his lips, thoughts racing through his head. "Have you-"

"Yeah?" Jess nearly leapt at the second chance.

Robin steeled himself and continued. "Do you…like-"

Before the twelve-year-old could finish his thought, Francis—the bright-eyed, scruffy leader of the eleven-man Spec Ops team—chose that moment to shout from the cockpit, "Up and at 'em, you lazy piles of excrement!" He emerged from the cockpit and strode down the center of the pelican's hold, breaking up the poker game and physically rousing the deep sleepers.

The pilot manipulated the controls of the pelican and brought it down for a landing.

"Gear up, and make it fast," Francis added, ducking back into the cockpit, satisfied that everyone was awake.

Everyone gathered up their gear and weapons, getting ready as the pelican neared the ground. Eugene, the jittery man with the stutter, reached below his seat and pulled out an SRS99F-S2 AM sniper rifle. That caused Robin to chuckle quietly at the irony of the jumpy person being the one who could aim the best.

Francis emerged again, assault rifle at the ready, his face obscured by the balaclava and hood, night-vision goggles covering his eyes. Everyone else dressed up identically.

Robin pulled on his black gloves and slipped into the jacket, zipping it up and pulling the hood over his head. He pulled the balaclava over his face, leaving his eyes as the only exposed part of his body.

"You gonna put your goggles on?" Drew, the brown-haired fifteen-year-old youth operative whose name Robin had just learned, asked the twelve-year-old. Robin didn't mind Drew; the fifteen-year-old was a little slow to accept a stranger, but there was nothing unkind or spiteful inside of or about him.

"Don't need 'em," Robin said, adjusting his gloves and picking up his battle-rifle. "I can see just fine." And he could. Seeing through the dark had never been a problem for Robin. It was different than seeing in the daylight, no arguing that, but he couldn't really explain what it was like anymore than a normal person could describe what colors looked like to a blind person.

"Oh, _really_?" Drew sounded skeptical. "How many fingers am I hol-"

"Eight."

"Alright, now I believe you…" Drew put the eight fingers down.

The pelican finally landed in a clearing in the thick woods which the nearby railway ran through. Once everyone in the Spec Ops team filed out of the pelican, the pilot hit the thrusters. "Radio me when your job is done!" the pilot hollered as he flew away. "I'll come and get you when you do!"

The team unconsciously formed a tight circle, all of them looking at Francis, who was in the center.

"Alright," the team leader got down to business. "There is a railway half a klick north of this position. Our objective—you've all seen it already—is three klicks to the east. We should be able to walk along the railway for most of that distance, but we're going to have to move into the woods to avoid detection from the perimeter guards. Any questions?" he asked, giving anyone who had anything on their mind the chance to speak.

Everyone remained silent.

"Okay," Francis nodded, standing up all the way and loading his assault rifle, checking the sight aperture and rubbing out a small piece of dirt which had made itself a home there. "Eugene, get out there and find yourself a good sniping position. Sean, go with him; you're on spotter duty. Try not to get him killed, alright?"

Sean's only response was a haughty sniff as he gathered himself and stalked off into the darkness after Eugene, the jittery sharpshooter of Francis's team.

Francis turned to the large-nosed woman, the scout of his team, knowing who she was even though her face was obscured by the balaclava and the night-vision goggles. "Judith, take point. Keep in contact with me and report anything out of the ordinary. We'll be thirty seconds behind you."

Judith gave a quick nod and melted away into the darkness, scouting out the route to the train tracks.

"Ishmael, Li," Francis now turned to the dark-skinned demolitions specialist and the Asian technical expert respectively. "If your toys aren't prepped and good to go now, then make sure they're ready by the time we reach the objective. We'll need your talents. As for you, Rookie…stick with Jess; she'll hold your hand," Francis finished, a ghost of a smile playing around his mouth. He lifted up his sleeve and checked his watch, glancing at the time. "We're on a time-table; we have to get in, blow the place to Tartarus, and then get out before the sun rises. We're good, but we can't fight toe-to-toe with an entire force of Magisterial Guardsmen in the broad daylight. Everyone clear?"

A collective "Clear," rose from all of the remaining operatives. Francis gave a satisfied grunt. "Alright, then, let's move out."

The eight remaining operatives all rose and set off into the darkness in the direction Judith had gone.

Robin soon found himself sandwiched between Nathan on one side and Jess on the other.

Nathan kept on looking at how Robin was not wearing any night-vision goggles, instead simply looking out into the darkness with aware, alert glances. "I know you can see just fine without the goggles…you never said _how_, though…you mind explaining?"

"You don't know?" But even as the words were coming out of Robin's mouth, he realized that Nathan had been absent when he had explained his augmentations to Blaze in his prison cell, and then later to Jess in the ghetto safehouse.

"My parents were Spartans…the long and short of it is that their retinas were genetically enhanced. I don't know the details—it messes with the cones and rod cells in the eyes or something like that—but it results in perfect night vision. I got it naturally from my parents when I was born."

"What's it like?" Nathan asked. "I mean, it's not anything like using one of these, is it?" he tapped his goggles.

"No," Robin shook his head. "No…kind of hard to describe; I don't know how it feels to have _normal_ vision, so… I've tried on night-vision goggles before; all they do is practically blind me."

Nathan gave an interested grunt, but left the topic alone afterwards.

The walk to the train tracks took ten minutes. Judging by the lack of comment from Judith—who was still moving well up ahead—there were no unwelcome surprises waiting for them.

After another ten minutes of walking along the train tracks, the TeamCOM squawked. "T-Team Leader, th-this is Eugene; I've g-got a g-good sniper spot p-picked out, over," the sniper's stuttering tones came over the COM.

"Alright, Eugene, don't kill yourself; get there and hunker down. Watch our backs; if you see _anything_ which could threaten either us or the mission, you have permission to open fire."

Eugene didn't bother replying; the point had been relayed and acknowledged.

Another fifteen minutes saw the eight-person Illuminati Spec Ops team down the remainder of the distance towards the fuel dump which was their objective. The fuel dump was a medium-sized facility; a thousand or so meters in diameter. Two thick, electrified, barbed-wire fences surrounded the facility itself, which comprised of three large silos of 'fuel' and a personnel compound in one of the corners.

The moment it came into visibility, Francis ordered Judith to double back and rejoin the main group, and for everyone to get off the railroad. It wouldn't do the mission wonders to be spotted by a curious sentry so early on. Sure enough, there were guard towers lining the perimeter fence. Those towers were equipped with a heavy machine-gun and a blindingly-bright while floodlight. The guards within moved the floodlights around the surrounding area at random trajectories, constantly vigilant for any possible trouble.

Well, it was now time to see if their precautions would pay off. Sometimes they did, and the Illuminati Spec Ops didn't achieve their objective. Most of the time, however, they were not enough. Not _nearly_ enough.

"What's our intel on that place?" Blaze whispered, keeping his voice down as they neared their objective.

Francis, who was holding a tree branch back so that Ishmael could duck under it, said, "Not much. Enough to get by, but not much. The guard changes every four hours, the fence is electrified… the actual weapons facility is located inside and under those fuel silos. The silos are what we need to blow. They aren't _really_ fuel silos, so we won't need to worry about any night-brightening explosions when we light-em up."

"Kind of a moot point; the thermite's gonna give you exactly that," Ishmael chuckled, hefting his satchel full of the explosives destined for the objective and giving it an affectionate pat.

"Alright; maintain silence from here on out," Francis said as the team made its way through the woods within a rock's throw of the objective. Communicating with strict hand signals, the team fanned out and assumed positions around the perimeter of the corner of the fuel dump which they were up against.

At whispered request from Francis, Ishmael tossed a pair of small, yellow canisters to Nathan, who took them and hurried off back in the direction the team had come.

Francis held out his hand, fingers together, palm facing out. _Wait_.

Blaze and Jess both reached down to their belts and produced simple silver spray cans. They sat on their haunches, waiting for Francis's go-ahead.

After a few minutes Nathan must have reached a good place for his distraction, because there was a sudden, loud _**BOOM**_ noise from the other side of the depot, followed by a screaming and crackling arc of red and green light.

"Fireworks?" Robin murmured.

"Shh!" Jess clapped a hand over the twelve-year-old's mouth. "No talking this close to the objective," she whispered.

Raised voices and exclamations were heard all throughout the camp as the guardsmen heard and saw the firework go off. There was a clatter of heavy machine-gunfire from one of the towers, but the main and desired affect was to draw the guards' attention away from the inconspicuous corner of the camp where the Illuminati operatives were under cover.

Francis pointed to Blaze and Jess with two fingers, then flicked his hand in the direction of the barbed-wire fence. _Go_.

Jess and Blaze broke cover and scurried up to the fence. Taking great care not to touch the electrified metal, they both pressed down on their spray cans, directing whatever was inside onto the fence. Both of them started at the bottom, moved the spray up in a straight line, then curved in at the top and met in the center about five and a half feet up from the ground. The metal which got sprayed fizzled and melted, and eventually a man-sized portal through the outer fence was formed, allowing Jess and Blaze to slip through and do the same thing to the inner fence.

There was a second sharp report of a firework as Nathan launched the other distraction. This one arced up from a different location, which was good planning on his part.

Francis pulled his COM unit close to his mouth and whispered a quick order on a private channel to Eugene. While all of the other personnel in the depot were transfixed by the fireworks, none of them noticed the two slight hissing noises as high-powered rounds made their way from a silenced sniper rifle half a klick away and into the skulls of the two guards manning the tower right above the corner where Jess and Blaze were currently breaking into.

The bodies of the two luckless men tumbled down and landed on the ground with resounding thuds.

"Move!" Francis whisper-shouted. Ishmael, handling his explosives as carefully as a mother would hold a newborn, ducked through the portal, accompanied by Judith and Drew, and set off into the depths of the fuel dump, heading for the silos.

Next to go in was Li, hefting his shoulder bag full of equipment. Francis went with him and gestured for Robin to follow, but told Jess and Blaze to hold their position. "Keep the exit clear," he whispered.

"Where are we headed?" Robin murmured.

Francis didn't answer him. Instead, he just said, "All you need to do is follow Li and shoot anyone who tries to shoot him. If he goes down, Ishmael and his escort will be left in the middle of this place with all the lights on them, and that will _not_ be beneficial to a long life."

Luckily, the distance between the fences and the fuel dump itself was not a long one; the guards in the towers did not notice the three shadows which weren't really shadows flitting across the grounds.

Francis, Li, and Robin quickly reached the three silos. They exchanged brief nods and acknowledgments with Ishmael and his escorts before moving on.

Luckily, the floodlights in the guard towers were mostly focused on the perimeter, so the distance between the silos and the personnel compound was relatively unwatched. Even so, Francis led them across slowly; fast-moving forms would catch attention easier than slow-moving ones would.

Two pairs of guards stepped out of the barracks on the far side of the personnel compound. The compound itself comprised of two guards' barracks, several operations buildings, a recreational center, and what appeared to be a maintenance shed. Francis and Li turned towards the maintenance building and shared a knowing glance.

If there was power which needed to be cut, the best bet would be the maintenance facility.

The pairs of guards walked out of the personnel compound, chatting amongst themselves. Robin could catch snippets of conversation, but otherwise didn't pay close attention to what they were saying—it didn't matter, and soon _they_ wouldn't either.

"Hold your weapon ready, but don't fire unless necessary," Francis whispered to Robin. "I want to keep the enemy unaware of our presence for as long as possible."

Robin lowered the barrel of his battle-rifle, still keeping it ready, but no longer actually aiming it at any possible threat. Francis, checking to make sure his assault rifle was still firmly secured to his back, reached down to his thigh and drew out his berretta sidearm, screwing on the silencer.

The fuel depot must not have had a large garrison, as there were no guards milling about the compound. They were either patrolling the perimeter, up in the towers, or in the barracks. While this could present a significant security lapse if the people who wanted to attack had half a pinch of brainpower, it made it a lot easier for any said attackers to sneak in. Li, Francis, and Robin had no trouble crossing through the personnel sector; sure, there was the occasional man or two wandering through the area, but other than that it was pretty much a straight shot to the maintenance center.

"Li, to the rear," Francis ordered the tech. Li obeyed, placing himself behind Robin, who had been following behind Francis. "Keep it quiet…"

The team leader pulled the night-vision goggles off his eyes and silently pushed the door to the maintenance center open, slipping inside.

The interior of the maintenance center was similar to a control room of a power plant; there were consoles lining the room with different read-outs, monitoring the power distribution, energy output, levels from the fence and towers, power in the compound, etc. etc.

A door in the rear of the room led to a back storage room, no doubt filled with spare parts in the event of a mechanical failure.

Two men were already in the room as Francis opened the door. One of them was dressed in a guardsman's uniform, and he was standing over the other man, who was dressed in blue fatigues. The man in fatigues, obviously a technician, was sitting in a rolling chair, in the middle of a heated argument with the first man.

"The floodlights have been faulty for the past week now," the guardsman's voice was laced with impatience and animosity. "You said that they had been fixed two days ago, did you not?"

"If you had given me the materials I needed when I _asked_ for them, then-" the technician began to reply, but he was cut off by the guard.

"Are you trying to shift the blame to me? Perhaps I should remind you of what happened to your predecessor? I don't think-"

Francis chose that moment to strike. He aimed carefully and dropped the guard with a single shot. The technician let out a startled yelp and started to leap out of his chair, but a second shot sent him spinning back onto the console he had been sitting in front of.

"Room clear," Francis reported airily.

Li hurried into the room and unshouldered his equipment pack. He murmured to himself, observing several different consoles before stopping in front of one which was near the entrance. He got down onto his knees and pulled a power drill from his bag. He inserted the drill's tip into the screws holding a panel in place under the console and undid them one by one.

The panel fell away, revealing a nexus of circuitry, fiber optics, and several other technical things whose names Robin did not know. The twelve-year-old didn't try to understand it all; that wasn't his job.

Li pulled out several more tools and tinkered around with the inside of the panel for a minute or two. Robin had no idea what he did or how he did it, but after a minute all of the power in the depot was cut.

"Ishmael," Francis activated his COM unit, whispering to the other team in the depot. "The power's cut now; get moving!"

There were more surprised shouts from the guards outside as the floodlights and compound lights snapped off, plunging the fuel depot back into total darkness. There were irregular flashes from outside as guards with flashlights turned them on.

Francis and Li pulled their night-vision goggles back over their faces.

"I cut the main power as well as the alarms," Li explained as he got back to his feet, gathering his equipment back into his bag. "Not that it'll really matter; they'll discover us soon."

"If the power goes out, wouldn't the maintenance shed—_here_—be the _first_ place they'd check?" Robin asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

"Mm-hmm," Francis grunted. "And that's why we're getting the hell out of here right now. On me!"

Francis stole back across the room and held open the door. Li, having gathered all of his gear, shouldered his bag and slipped out into the night. Robin followed the short Asian man outside and Francis brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.

Robin proceeded in between the two men, following Li away from the maintenance building. There were several shouts and orders being relayed from elsewhere in the personnel compound as the guards began to coordinate themselves in reaction to the loss of power.

Li headed for a tall mountain of crates, all of them marked _**classified**_. If there indeed _was_ a weapons facility below the fuel dump, the presence of matérial such as that seemed to be more than simple coincidence.

Regardless of the purpose of the crates, they served as a good cover for Robin and the two operatives.

"Get behind those crates; we're about to get a pre-show," Li warned. Robin and Francis took the Asian's word for it and hunkered down behind the mountain of wooden boxes.

"I knew they'd try to fix up whatever was wrong by ruining all of my hard work in the building, so I left them a little gift," Li murmured, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth.

A second ticked by, then another, and another.

A team of five guardsmen accompanied by another blue-uniformed technician hurried across the compound and filed into the maintenance building. The glows of their flashlights were visible through the window in the door for several seconds before all hell broke loose.

Li reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black cylinder with a simple red button on the top. Without a second's hesitation, the tech pressed the button. The moment the red button depressed, there was a loud _**BOOM**_ followed by a gout of fire which blew the maintenance center's door off its hinges. A small part of the building collapsed in on itself and the area around the entrance—the weakest part of the structure—blew out completely, scattering burning embers and mangled debris several hundred yards across the compound.

None of the six men who had gone in survived.

Even more shouts arose as guards from all parts of the depot began to converge on the burning building.

"S-Sir, this is Eugene, wh-what the hell happened?!" the sniper's voice issued from the COM, surprise and shock dulling his stutter a tad bit.

Francis ignored the sniper and activated his own COM unit, establishing contact with the others in the compound. "Ishmael, this is Team Leader; what's your status?" he shouted as quietly as he could, somehow pulling it off.

"Sir!" Ishmael's voice came back through the COM, barely audible over the sounds of what appeared to be a raging battle going on in the background. "Sir, I'm laying the last charge, but we're encountering heavy resistance! There was a whole contingent of armed personnel down here, supervising the scientists…well, we couldn't evade them all! We need to-"

"Acknowledged, Ishmael," Francis interrupted. "Hang tight. Team Leader out," Francis said as he killed the channel between him and the demolitions specialist. He turned back to Li and Robin, who were both huddling down as far as they could as the guards milled around the burning maintenance center. Both were starting to get nervous; it was only a matter of time before someone organized the guards into a search party and ran through the compound with a fine-toothed comb, looking for the ones who had set those explosives.

"Li," Francis said to the tech, "get the hell out of here. Get back to the point of entry and link up with Jess and Blaze. Robin, you're coming with me. Time to see what you're capable of."

Li slipped off into the darkness towards the hole in the fence while Francis headed instead towards the silos, gesturing for Robin to follow. As they approached the fake silos, sounds of a heated firefight were drifting up from the open hatch in the middle of the three behemoths which Ishmael and his escort used as their point of entry.

"Ladies first," Francis gestured for Robin to climb down the shaft under the hatchway.

Robin obeyed, grasping both sides of the ladder and sliding all the way down to the bottom twenty feet below. Francis followed suit, hitting the floor just after Robin stepped away.

The twelve-year-old readied his battle-rifle for action once more. He looked around and absorbed his surroundings. He and Francis were located in a simple corridor which ran down for several hundred meters before turning a corner. Gunshots and weaponsfire were blazing away from around that corner, making it obvious which direction the two intruders should head in. The lights in the corridor were still up and running; they must have been powered by a separate source or an independent generator—something not connected to the maintenance center.

"No need to worry about stealth here, just _hurry_," Francis insinuated, already picking up his feet and sprinting down the hallway.

Robin followed suit and overtook the Illuminati operative in less than a second, blowing past him all the way to the corner, which he skidded around, avoiding bumping into the wall as he went.

The second stretch of the corridor ran for a short distance until it reached a large set of metal double-doors, which were open. Beyond the doors was the weapons facility; a large laboratory-like chamber the size of a cargo hold on a small freighter. Conveyor belts ran all throughout the facility alongside different stations, consoles, and proto-type machines. The door opened up onto a catwalk which encircled the whole perimeter of the room which stairs descending to the ground floor located at regular intervals. Easily two-dozen men were in the main level, all of them heavily armed and blazing away at a small room at the other end of the facility. There was some small-arms fire coming from that room in response.

Ishmael, Drew, and Judith; without a doubt.

As Robin rounded the corner, he came face-to-face with three men clumped together in the doorway at the other end of the corridor. Two of them were busy setting up a mounted heavy machinegun while the third was crouched at the railing of the catwalk, aiming his sniper rifle at the room where Ishmael and his escort were pinned down in.

All three reacted with the sudden arrival of the twelve-year-old with a mix of surprise and bewilderment. They hesitated before aiming their weapons, some small part of what remained of the consciousnesses asking themselves if they could kill a twelve-year-old child. Well, consciousness obviously lost, because they recovered from their shock as quickly as they had come down with it.

Robin hesitated too when he saw the men raise their weapons. He took quick aim with his battle-rifle, but couldn't quite bring himself to pull the trigger. He had been able to put holes in the targets on the Camp Geronimo shooting range with the accuracy of Apollo, but these were live, flesh and blood, _men_. There was a huge, _huge_ difference.

Francis rounded the corner at just that moment. "Shoot them!" the team leader shouted. "Now!" That was all he had a chance to say before one of the guardsmen finally squeezed off a burst of lead. Fortunately, there was an explosion in the main room—probably a dropped grenade—which startled the man as he fired. The burst went wide, tearing into the ceiling.

A few stray bullets punched into the wall right next to Robin's ear, shocking him into action. The sound of the bullets still ringing in his ears, Robin's trigger finger twitched and the battle-rifle coughed, sending a short three-round burst into the chest of the man who had just fired. The man let out a wheezing groan and collapsed to the floor.

After the initial struggle of the first kill, Robin's body seemed to take over. Fast as lightning, he dove to the side as the other two men opened fire, firing his battle-rifle a second time as he leapt.

A second man went down, a bullet in his knee and another in his thigh.

The third man went down as well before Robin landed, felled by a quick, clean headshot from Francis's berretta. The team leader, who had removed his goggles, but kept on his balaclava, walked up to Robin, who had landed on the floor and was rubbing a bruised shoulder.

"If you ever need to dive like that, always follow up with a roll," Francis advised. "That absorbs the shock of the impact and avoids giving you colorful souvenirs to show your friends after the mission's over and you're drowning your sorrows in a pint of lager."

Robin nodded, showing that he had heard, and got back to his feet.

The wounded man let out an agonized groan, drawing attention back to himself. He tried to crawl away, dragging himself across the floor with both hands.

Francis had other plans. The scruffy team leader pressed a foot to the wounded man's neck and aimed his berretta. He pulled the trigger and the silenced gun coughed, sending a round right into the back of the wounded man's head. The man died before he even knew what hit him.

"Move!" Francis shouted. He sprinted out onto the catwalk, holstering his berretta and unslinging his MA6A assault rifle. Robin followed him out and took up a position next to him on the railing. The two of the opened fire, taking the two-dozen guards on the main floor by surprise. Robin moved from one target to the next, methodically dropping the ones at longer range one-by-one with quick and regular three-round bursts.

Francis opened fire and took down a clump of men at closer range before breaking off and vaulting down the nearest staircase before the guards below could see what had hit them.

At least half of the guards went down in the initial attack before they wised up and took appropriate cover to shield them from two directions.

"Rookie, cover me!" Francis shouted. The team leader zigzagged his way through the conveyor belts and machinery. He grabbed a pair of fragmentation grenades from his belt, primed them, and tossed them as he went.

Robin followed his progress, saving the rest of the ammo in his current magazine and taking out only any guard who threatened Francis. One man popped his head up right in front of Francis, a primed grenade in his hand, ready to lob it right into the Illuminati operative. Robin acted quickly, pushing all thoughts of killing a man from his mind, and fired another burst into the guard's head. The man fell back and his grenade went off harmlessly.

Francis signaled _thanks_ as he continued. After a full minute, he reached the small room and shouted something inside. Ishmael emerged first, followed by Judith, who was supporting a dazed and bleeding Drew. The fifteen-year-old youth operative was bleeding from his leg and had a large bruise forming on the side of his head.

After five minutes-worth of heavy fire from the surviving guards, dodging bullets and grenades, and sheer dumb luck, Francis, Ishmael, and Judith reached the set of stairs right near Robin's position.

Robin ejected the now-empty magazine from his battle-rifle and slammed a new one in. He did so with no snags; he had rehearsed and gone through that exact routine time after time after time with Master Gunnery Sergeant Keller back in Camp Geronimo. With a full magazine, he concentrated on keeping the surviving dozen guards' heads down by keeping up a steady stream of fire in the direction of each one who got bold enough to expose a body part.

When Francis tapped him on the shoulder, the twelve-year-old knew it was time to leave. He sprang to his feet and edged back into the corridor. Before the others could sprint back to the ladder, he caught Judith's arm.

"Give Drew to me!" he shouted over the sound of the resumed weaponsfire coming from the facility. The large-nosed woman obeyed without any questions, passing the wounded fifteen-year-old over to the twelve-year-old.

Robin hefted Drew and unceremoniously slung him over his right shoulder, holding him with his right arm and his battle-rifle in his left. The operatives retreated back to the ladder and climbed up one-by-one. Robin passed his weapon up with Ishmael, who climbed up before him, allowing him the use of his left hand to climb the ladder. He reached the top and took back his rifle. Judith came up next, followed by Francis.

"All the charges are set?!" Francis exclaimed, leading the group in running back across the compound.

"Yeah, they're good to go!" Ishmael shouted in response.

Weaponsfire was now roaring all over the fuel dump. Jess and Blaze's position had been discovered, but they had been forced to hold it. Failure in doing so would result in the rest of the strike team being trapped inside the compound.

The entire garrison was bearing down on the two youth operatives, who were now backed up by Li and Nathan. Guards were taking cover behind shacks and buildings, blazing away at their attackers. It was a good thing the heavy machineguns in the guard towers could not be turned around to fire into the compound; else Jess and Blaze would be nothing but stains and memories by now.

All the same, they were on borrowed time with this amount of firepower screaming their way.

There were sharp cracks splitting through the night every now and them, followed by the quick death of an exposed guard. Eugene was doing what he did best, out in the darkness somewhere.

The guards readjusted their aim as they saw the rest of the Illuminati team sprinting for the hole in the fences, but most of their bursts went wide.

One bullet got lucky and Francis stumbled, blood seeping down his leg. He swore, shouting out pretty much everything in the book, and then a few more which had had thought up precisely for special occasions such as this.

"Francis! You alright?!" Ishmael exclaimed as they reached the hole in the fence.

"Do I fucking _look_ alright?!" Francis screamed back. He bit his lip and limped through the hole, calming down and saying, "Yeah, it's just a graze…still hurts like a bitch, though…"

"Permission to get the fuck outta here, sir?!" Blaze exclaimed, following Robin and Judith through the hole in the fence. Jess was the last to come through.

"Don't let _me_ stop you," Francis replied, already heading back into the woods. "Everyone hurry back to the extraction point! Watch each others' backs, don't leave anyone behind! Eugene!" the team leader got back onto the COM, contacting the sniper. "Eugene, get yourself to the extraction point! I _guess_ you can bring Sean with you…"

The guards in the compound noticed the lack of any opposing fire coming from where the Illuminati's former position and were beginning to advance. It was only a matter of time before they discovered the hole in the fence and decided to mount a pursuit.

Francis called out to Ishmael and told him to activate the charges, shouting, "Turn those sons of bitches into Christmas lights!"

Ishmael took out his personal detonator which he had used on every mission since he joined the Spec Ops as a demolitions specialist and, after giving it a warm and heartfelt kiss, stabbed down at one of the buttons on its screen.

Just as the operatives reached the railroad, a slight tremor went through the ground and a blinding white light split through the darkness for a split-second as the thermite explosives which Ishmael had set in the underground facility went off. The flash quickly vanished, followed by an eruption of white flames in the center of the compound. The woods blocked the operatives from directly seeing the explosion, but the flames and smoke were visible above the treetops when they were at their peak. Bits and chunks of debris showered down all around the former fuel depot, now a lifeless burning patch, soon to be a scorch mark.

The operatives trudged along the railways, the heat of the explosion still at their backs.

"You think we kind of went overboard on the thermite?" Blaze voiced his opinion casually. He had a point; the explosion and flames _had_ been pretty massive. The rest of the operatives burst out laughing.

"Overboard, you say?" Ishmael chuckled. "If I'd had my way with the old Colonel, that explosion would've caused an earthquake."

The other operatives all laughed again. The rest of the walk back down the railroad and through the woods passed in silence.

The pilot of the pelican who had flown the team in was waiting for them at the clearing where he had dropped them off. Eugene and Sean were already inside the hold, waiting for everyone else.

"Good to see y'all back in one piece," the pilot nodded to the new arrivals, ducking into the cockpit and starting up the dropship's engines.

After everyone piled in and took off their head coverings and dropped their gear to the floor, relaxing and settling down, the ship took off, flying away into the night, heading back for home.

Robin sat back in his original spot; right near the open rear of the dropship, staring out into the night sky. He remained thus until Francis grabbed him from behind and hauled him to his feet, spinning him around and dragging him into the center of the hold with everyone else, placing both of his hands on the twelve-year-old's shoulders. "Boys, I would like to commend you all for completing yet another mission. Once we get back to Portus Illuminatus, we're all going to the Sidewinder and drinks are on me!"

That earned a round of cheers from the operatives, even from Drew, who had regained some awareness, though he was still a little woozy from the knock he had gotten to his head.

"Before we do all that, though," Francis continued, "I'd like to welcome Robin here—who survived his first op with flying colors—into our little family. We'll properly initiate him at the Sidewinder when we get back home, but for now…" the scruffy team leader ruffled Robin's hair. The gesture reminded the twelve-year-old of his parents; his father usually messed up his hair exactly the same way.

Robin was tossed around for a few minutes by an onslaught of slaps on the back, punches on the arm and shoulders, and exclamations. After it all died down, he was allowed to go back to his spot at the back of the hold, sitting on the floor.

Jess sat back down next to him like she had before they had arrived at the fuel depot and looked out at the stars alongside him. Almost unconsciously, she put an arm around his shoulders and drew him close. Surprisingly, Robin didn't remark or resist; he seemed content to remain like that.

"Well, soldier-boy," Jess chuckled, "You did pretty good back there. You know you did good when the team gives you this kind of reception after your first mission; not every rookie is so lucky. You did good."

Robin smiled again.


	38. Chapter 37: Karma

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Karma

**2252 Hours, September 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys City, Tethys Region, Terra Firma**

Alex Ambrose was in a bad mood. Nothing out of the ordinary with the fact; ever since the failed rescue mission in the Meillan Region he had rarely smiled. He had always been in a default black mood since that time, but _now_ he had tacked on another emotion; severe impatience.

Alex had good reason to be impatient, though. After his interrogation of Archibald Melmot, a senior Inquisitor operating out of Tethys, he had gleaned the whereabouts of a man named Jacob Holtz.

This Jacob Holtz, according to Melmot, had been a part of the team of operatives who kidnapped Robin out of his home in Riverside, New York two months ago, in the beginning of August.

Alex's lip curled thinking about the man. The only reason Melmot had known about Jacob Holtz was because his contact in Shade Branch—a quartermaster named Lorring—had seen a formal complaint lodged by Holtz's superior officer at the time about the man. In that complaint, the commanding officer had spoken of Holtz allegedly physically beating their captive. That complaint was filed by the CO of the men who kidnapped Robin _after_ Robin's abduction; the 'captive' mentioned in the complaint could only refer to Alex's son.

Jacob Holtz had hurt his son. That knowledge burned in Alex's heart like a smoldering ember which would not go out. The Ambroses needed to find Jacob Holtz to find his former commanding officer—a man named O'Riley—and Alex would definitely have more than a few things to say to the man when they finally met.

"Let's go back," the whisper came from Sam. She was sitting in the passenger seat of the civilian warthog which she and Alex had borrowed from Percival Blackmoore ever since their assassination mission in San Anselma. "He's not going to be here."

Alex remained silent, gazing across the street at the apartments rising up into the sky beyond the opposite sidewalk. His black mood returned. These were the Forchester Projects, the place where Melmot had said that Jacob Holtz lived.

The Inquisitor had said that two weeks ago. For every day of those past two weeks Alex and Sam Ambrose had driven to the Forchester Projects, only to find Holtz's home deserted. Though Sam often tried to get Alex to take it easy, Alex was determined to wait as long as necessary for their target. If not for the basic bodily necessities of hunger and thirst, he would have remained rooted to the spot in front of the apartments until the sun darkened.

"Ace," Sam used Alex's old nickname from the war. "He hasn't been here for over two weeks; what makes you think he'll be here tonight?"

"I've got a feeling," was all Alex said in reply.

Sam snorted. "Oh, that solves _everything_ then. You have a feeling…"

"I can't explain it," Alex snapped, shaking his head impatiently and rubbing the curve of his nose. "Ah…hell, you're probably right…" he grumbled, powering up the engine as he spoke.

Fate had other plans for the Ambroses, however.

Just as Alex was beginning to pull the warthog out into the road, a dark black compact hovercar rounded the corner at the end of the block. Traffic at this time of night in Tethys City was highly uncommon, so Alex killed the engine as the car passed. It could very well be a patrol of paladins; driving in front of them in the middle of the night would not do wonders for covertness if that were the case.

Instead of simply speeding past, however, the compact pulled up to a stop in front of the Forchester Projects.

"Are you kidding me?" Sam muttered.

The door of the compact popped open and a man stepped out. The man wore a dark raincoat, even though there was no rain in Tethys tonight. Though it was dark outside right then, Alex and Sam, having augmented retinas, could both clearly discern the man's features. He had a square, brutish face with a large, flat nose, stubble covering his chin, and sunken eyes.

Alex reached into his pocket and drew out the photograph of Jacob Holtz which Blackmoore had provided them with for visual confirmation. The man in the photo was identical to the man closing the compact's door and walking into the apartment's complex's entrance.

"Well if _that_ wasn't a deus ex machina, I don't know what is…" Alex murmured, his mouth curving into a smile. It was not a happy smile, but a cold one; one which did not reach his eyes. He reached down into his jacket and pulled out his silenced magnum, checking the magazine and reloading the sidearm before pocketing it again. "Shall we?"

Sam hesitated, and then nodded wordlessly. She did not want Alex to go down the path of vengeance, but this Holtz man was different; he had phyically _hurt_ Robin. Even if her son had lived, she would still have gone after Holtz when she found out.

Alex and Sam both got out of the warthog and headed across the street, approaching the apartment complex. They walked up to the entrance and pushed open the door, walking inside.

The front lobby was dark and deserted; it obviously had no night receptionist.

"Which one does our man live in?" Alex asked as he headed for the elevator.

"Sixth floor, apartment 13B," Sam answered. "That's what your friend the Inquisitor told you."

The elevator dinged and slid open, allowing the Ambroses to walk inside. Sam pressed the button labeled '6' and the doors slid back closed. The elevator ascended up through the building until it reached the indicated level. It came to a slightly lurching halt and dinged, prompting the doors to slide back open.

The elevator was situated in the middle of a long corridor which ran down before turning deeper into the building. The two sides probably turned again and met in a square, but Alex and Sam did not need to go in far enough to find out.

Apartment 13B was situated nearly all the way down the hallway to the right. The number was engraved in the center of the simple gray door.

"You're sure this is the one?" Alex asked as they approached the door.

Sam gave a grunt to the affirmative, nodding her head.

Alex let out a shaky sigh and gave the door a sharp rap with his knuckles. "Mr. Holtz?"

"Who's that?" a gruff voice called from inside. "What the hell do you want?"

That was all Alex needed. With a deep-throated grunt, the blue-eyed Spartan lashed out at the door with a strong kick, shattering it like a piece of thin plywood. Sam leaped through the wide-open doorway before her husband had a chance to, sprinting down through the small front entrance room and into the apartment's living space.

Jacob Holtz was still in the process of taking off his coat when the door caved in. With a surprised shout, he immediately recovered from his initial surprise and reached into his jacket, pulling out a shiny, loaded pistol.

Sam burst into the living space just as he took aim. She whipped to the side, dodging the first bullet, and moved in close, grabbing Holtz's weapon arm in a vice-like grip. The red-haired Spartan grasped Holtz's gun with her free hand and effortlessly wrenched it out of his grip, turning it and bringing it crashing down on the struggling man's head.

By the time Alex made it into the living room, Holtz was out cold on the floor.

Alex released a weary sigh. "Did you _have_ to knock him out?"

"I didn't hit him very hard," Sam shrugged, grabbing hold of the unconscious man's shoulders and heaving him up to his feet. He looked almost comical, dangling on his own two feet like a marionette as Sam held him up. "He should be awake again in a few minutes."

"Alright…" Alex shed his jacket, tossing it onto one of the couches lining the walls. He quickly ducked into the kitchen and returned with a small, heavy wooden chair in tow. He set the chair down in the center of the room. "Put him in there…let me find some bed sheets or something to restrain him with."

"No need," Sam produced several lengths of steel cord from her own jacket. "I wasn't sure when he'd show up, but I figured we wouldn't be sitting him down nicely on a sofa and engaging in conversation over tea."

"Good thinking."

Sam sat Holtz down in the chair and firmly tied his hands and ankles to the chair's frame and legs respectively. Alex brought out a dishcloth from the kitchen and rolled it up into a gag, feeding it into Holtz's mouth and tying it around the back of his head. That done, Alex and Sam both pulled one of the couches over and around, swiveling it so that they could sit across from Holtz face-to-face.

"And now, we wait," Sam sighed, laying back and stretching her arms up into the air.

"Well _you're_ the one who decided to hit him," Alex grumbled.

Sam, not fazed in the slightest by her husband's foul mood, shrugged. She slid over to Alex and gave him a warm kiss on the cheek. "Better?"

Alex considered it for a second. "Better," he agreed.

Jacob Holtz took half an hour to regain consciousness from the blow Sam had dealt him. He groaned blearily, cracking open his eyes and sitting up. He tried to move before he realized that his limbs were bound. That realization probably was what brought him to full awareness. He jerked awake with a surprised grunt, trying to wrench free from the chair and failing miserably.

His first impulse was to scream, but the gag muffled the attempt. He kept at it for a full minute before Alex finally lost patience.

The blue-eyed Spartan drew out his silenced magnum and aimed it at Holtz's knee. "Keep at it and you'll have a limp until you die," Alex warned the thrashing man in a casual, everyday tone.

Holtz finally calmed down, sitting back and regarding his captors with wide, hostile eyes.

"We're going to remove the gag, Mr. Holtz," Sam stood up and started to untie the dishcloth around the bound man's mouth.

Alex aimed his gun at Holtz's crotch instead. "If you scream when that comes off, you'll be doing a hell of lot more of it."

The dishcloth fell away.

Holtz didn't scream.

Sam sat back down next to Alex. The two Spartans simply stared at Holtz for a full minute before the bound man finally broke the silence. "What the fuck do you want with me?"

Alex's response was pistol-whip across Holtz's mouth. A chip of tooth and several drops of blood flew away from Holtz's face as he grunted at the throbbing pain. He did not scream though, still remembering the consequence for doing so.

"First rule of our little game: speak only when spoken to," Alex explained to Holtz, wiping the blood off of his magnum.

"Do you know who we are, Mr. Holtz?" Sam asked, her tones dangerously quiet.

Holtz automatically tensed. He could recognize that Sam was one of the people who, when speaking softly like that, were best avoided. Too bad he was stuck in the chair. Still…there _was_ something familiar about their voices…and the man…

Holtz studied the man, a feeling of familiarity rising from the depths of his mind. Shorter than his wife, light-brown hair, freckles splashed across his face, smaller nose…what did it for Holtz were the eyes.

Holtz got a good glimpse of Alex's eyes. Harsh, electric-blue; they seemed to pierce right through him.

His mind flashed back two months.

_Earth. Riverside, New York. Following Captain O'Riley up to the back door of the innocent suburban house._

_Slipping in through the doorway, stepping on bad spot in the floor, resulting in an almost deafening creak._

_Silently climbing the stairs. Captain O'Riley gesturing for half the squad to get back down to the ground floor._

_Approaching the bedroom door, following Captain O'Riley and Pacelle inside._

_The eleven-year-old, sandy-haired boy sleeping in the bed. Quickly grabbing and pinning his arms with Pacelle while Captain O'Riley sedates the boy._

_The bedroom door flying open, a silhouette in the doorway, clad only in underwear._

_Captain O'Riley hurling a stun grenade, a blinding flash, the silhouette illuminated for a split-second. Harsh, electric-blue eyes_…

"You…" was all Holtz was able to say.

Alex knew that Holtz truly recognized him. His cold, unfeeling smile returned, casting a shadow over the rest of his face. "It's been two months, Mr. Holtz; I was afraid you wouldn't remember."

"Hey, look-"

"You hurt my son, Mr. Holtz," Alex whispered, his voice entering the dangerously soft area Sam's had dropped into. "You hurt my son."

A chill crept up Holtz's spine. He remembered that eleven-year-old child had said that his parents would hunt him down one day. He had taken it as an empty threat then, but now... "Alright, yeah, I was there when we took him, and yeah, I roughed him up a bit in our safehouse in Philadelphia, but…but…look, you had to have come here for another reason."

"He learns fast," Sam quipped, her eyes almost as cold as her husband's.

"We'll see. Mr. Holtz, I need information from you. If you answer what I ask you, I'll let you go and we'll get out of your hair. You'll never see or hear from me again," Alex assured the man.

Holtz leapt at the lifeline. "Anything! Anything you need, just-"

Sam pulled out her own magnum, took aim, and fired. The round tore into the chair's seat, blowing a hole in the wood less than an inch away from Holtz's family jewels. That shut him up real fast.

"You're rambling," the red-haired Spartan sighed, pocketing her weapon. "That is another one of our rules; no rambling. Answer our questions, nothing more."

Holtz remained silent, probably the wisest thing he had chosen to do so far.

"Now then, down to business," Alex lowered his magnum and leaned forward, looking straight into Holtz's eyes. "I want to know who your commanding officer was during your abduction mission. I want to know who he is and everything you know about him."

Holtz was relieved. "That's all?"

"That's all."

Holtz wasted no more time. "His name is O'Riley. Captain Liam Cathal O'Riley. No…not captain…he's the Deputy Director now…uh… Well, he's been in Shade Branch for over ten years, maybe twenty…he grew up on the world of Hyndareus, was indoctrinated at ten years old…"

"I don't need his life story," Alex snapped, his contempt breaking through his previously calm exterior. "I need his whereabouts. What he's been doing lately. Where he is going."

"I don't know…no, wait!" Holtz quickly amended himself as Alex began to raise his magnum. "Wait! He used to be stationed at the Cruciamentum in Mire City…then it got blown up somehow. He's been operating here out of Tethys City, trying to hunt down the Illuminati. He mentioned something about having a lead right after the last Conclave of War, hopped into a pelican, and flew off. No one's heard from him since."

"How could we find out where he went?" Sam asked next.

"If you could gain access to a Magisterial satellite in orbit, you could probably sift through its visual records and track it, provided you knew the pelican's registration number, which you could find in the Archives."

Alex considered the whole thing. Going back to the Archives and hijacking a satellite seemed to be a large amount of unnecessary work when he already knew where O'Riley had gone. Sooner or later, the Illuminati would contact him; Blackmoore had told him as much. Once that happened, he would find O'Riley one way or another.

He would have his vengeance. Maybe he would have it later instead of sooner, but he would have it.

In the meantime…

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Holtz; you have been most helpful," Alex stood up, raising his magnum and taking aim.

"Wh-what?" Holtz spluttered, finding himself staring down the barrel of Alex's weapon. "What are you doing?! You said if I answered your questions that you would let me-"

Alex squeezed the trigger. The magnum coughed, spitting a round out of the chamber, down the barrel, and into Holtz's skull. Holtz, a neat hole right between his eyes, was dead before the discharge even registered in his brain. His head flopped back in a spray of red and his body sagged, held up only by the bonds.

"I lied," the blue-eyed Spartan said to Holtz emotionlessly, even though the dead man could no longer hear him.

"Come on," Sam said, standing up and heading for the door. "We don't want to be anywhere near here when the authorities discover him."

Alex nodded and followed his wife back out into the hallway. The Ambroses took the elevator back down to the ground floor and left the Forchester Projects, climbing back into their warthog.

Alex powered up the engine and hit the power pedal, propelling the vehicle out onto the road. He turned down the first avenue to come up, heading back towards the abandoned pawnshop where he and Sam had taken up temporary residence during their stay in Tethys City.

The drive back to their base of operations took fifteen minutes. Normally it would have taken more than forty, but there was absolutely no traffic or activity outside at this time of night, allowing for a straight shot home without any obstacles.

Alex pulled the warthog up in front of the abandoned pawnshop and killed the engine. He and Sam climbed out of the vehicle and headed over to the pawnshop's entrance. A light rain had started up, layering the streets of Tethys with rainwater. There was no breeze, though, so the mild autumn night remained mild.

Alex pushed open the door and flicked on the lights…and then jumped in surprise upon seeing the figure sitting at the counter.

"Who the hell are you?!" Sam exclaimed as the door closed behind her, the ancient bell set on its top jingling as it was agitated.

The figure stood up and turned. He was an old, scruffy man, dressed in a tattered black greatcoat and an old black fisherman's hat. With a start, Alex and Sam recognized him: he was the old homeless man who they had run into on their first day in Tethys. He had been sitting on the sidewalk near this pawnshop. He had pointed out John Mansfield, one of Blackmoore's lieutenants, and had planted the idea of using Blackmoore to find the Illuminati into their minds.

"Nice night for a walk," the old man brushed past Sam, pressing a folded piece of paper into her hand. "Appearances can be deceiving," the old man added, opening the door. "Things are happening…strange things…potentially _bad_ things…things are not as they seem. We will have good news for you, should you choose to meet us halfway."

With that, before either Alex or Sam could stop him, the old man was out the door and gone.

"What the hell was that all about?" Alex spoke his mind.

Sam shrugged. "Might as well take a look," she murmured, grabbing the piece of paper the old man had given to her. She unfolded it.

The paper was older and yellowed, but the message was clearly legible.

_Things are not as they seem. Trouble can exist everywhere_…_even in those places where one would think it impossible to penetrate. You can trust this messenger. You do not know me, but I know you. My name is Gerald, and we have to talk. Urgently. Meet me on Dalchester Street, 1600__th__ block, inside the café there at 9:00 p.m. I cannot meet you tomorrow; I will arrange to have a signal sent to you on the day when I am ready. Make sure you are not followed._

Sam read the note aloud. "What's this?" she pointed to something else on the paper; a symbol of sorts, situated just below the last sentence.

Alex leaned in and studied the mark. It was a pyramid without a peak. Above the unfinished pyramid was a shining triangle, exactly the right size to be the pyramid's peak, but it wasn't the peak; it was independent. Right in the middle of that triangle was a human eye.

"The All-Seeing Eye…" Alex murmured, recognizing the symbol from several obscure times in his past. He paused, remembering what that symbol was commonly associated with, and then smiled. This smile was a real one; he was truly excited.

"What is it?" Sam asked, not following her husband's reaction.

"Honey, I think we just made ourselves a date with the Illuminati."


	39. Chapter 38: Breaking Stalemates

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Breaking Stalemates

**1006 Hours, October 5, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

**Ainsdell City, Eastern Quadrant**

The deep, melancholy tones of the sixth movement of Beethoven's Opus 131 drifted throughout the street. The ruined, burnt-out shells of what used to be shops and businesses lined the sidewalks of 15th Avenue seemed to fall silent and listen as the music played.

Four older marines from Charlie Company of the 103rd Marine Regiment had 'liberated' a proper quartet's-worth of strings instruments from a music shop on the corner of 15th and Canterbury and had set up a makeshift pit on the pockmarked sidewalk outside. They sat on piles of bricks and debris and silently played their instruments, their faces contorted in deep concentration.

The marines of the 103rd Regiment in Major General Lothario Armistead's 3rd Division had fought tooth and nail for six days to drive the Insurrectionist ground forces out of 15th Avenue and closer back to the Main Boulevard—a long, wide main road running from the Litterman Bridge on the Marisle River all the way to Firelso Square at the heart of the city.

The First Expeditionary Force's II Corps had been steadily advancing through the eastern half of Ainsdell, slowly wresting one city block after another away from the Insurrectionist ground forces which had managed to get planet-side before the UNSC Seventh Fleet destroyed the remnants of the fleet of Insurrectionist and Tirque vessels which had originally attacked Irivet V.

3rd and 5th Divisions had split up and were arcing down southwest towards Firelso Square. 5th Division was moving south, then west, while 3rd Division was advancing west first, and then south. It was a pincer-like move, each division being an individual half of the pincer, both of them clamping down on the Main Boulevard from two different directions. The two divisions, after gaining enough ground, would reconnect _on_ the Main Boulevard. After that occurred, the entire II Corps would drive forward into Firelso Square and link up with I Corps, which was fighting its way up from the southern outskirts of the city.

With the capture of 15th Avenue, 3rd Division could now begin to swing down to the south and bear down on the Main Boulevard. The Insurrectionists must have realized that too, six days ago, because they had fought harder than ever to keep that road. The 103rd and the 54th Regiments had been taking turns battering the Insurrectionist defenders on 15th Avenue for four straight days until Delta Company of the 103rd finally achieved a breakthrough, allowing the rest of that company's battalion to pour through the gap.

Even though the 103rd had established a foothold and presence on 15th Avenue by the fourth day of that particular offensive, it had still taken an additional two days to drive the Insurrectionists completely out of the street and back into the next district down.

The battle of 15th Avenue had only ended fourteen hours ago, and the signs of it still showed. Fires still burned all over the street. The heavy, tangy odor of recently-discharged weapons still hung in the air, side by side with the familiar stench of death. Unburied corpses, dressed both in the UNSC green-black and the Insurrectionist gray, were still strewn all over the road. Auxiliaries from the Graves Registration—a smaller unit of men attached to elements of the First Expeditionary Force who took care of battlefield sanitation after every battle—had only just begun to remove the corpses earlier that morning. They still had a lot of work to do.

Tyrone-G083 was sitting on top of a pile of bricks. Those bricks used to be part of the wall of the building they were strewn all over in front of, but that building, along with most of the other structures on 15th Avenue—and the rest of Ainsdell, for that matter—was nothing more than rubble.

Tyrone was motionless. Though no one could see his face through the reflective gold faceplate set into the helmet of his MJOLNIR, his eyes were closed and he was breathing in slowly and calmly. He was listening to the somber music being played by the quartet of marines who had gotten the strings instruments from that one music shop a block down the street.

The music, written by Beethoven many centuries ago, instilled itself in everyone and everything within earshot. The exhausted and tattered men of the 103rd Regiment, who were trudging their way up and down 15th Avenue, tending to the battlefield and simply finding a place to wait until the men with stars ordered the next attack, mostly stopped to listen as well. Some stood still on the sidewalks and in the center of the road, almost swaying like wheat in a breeze. Others, like Tyrone, sat.

The music was not upbeat, not even in the same dimension as upbeat. It was dark and solemn, with a deeper meaning and tone. It certainly wasn't anything which would get the marines' blood boiling, nor would it rev them up to deal the Insurrectionists another blow. It did, however, really get into the minds and souls of the men who listened.

There had probably been talk among the officers of putting a stop to the quartet's quasi-performance, or telling them to play something happier. Tyrone was glad that nothing of that sort had been done. Happy music had no place on this street. It would only serve to remind the marines fighting here of what they would not see again for a long, long time.

Happy music was for nighttime behind the front line, where festivities of questionable morality commonly arose. Unofficially, of course.

Happy music was not for a road which had had blood spilt over it for six straight days. That was how Tyrone felt, and it was also how every other man and woman out there felt.

The somber tones of Beethoven's composition seemed to reflect or relate to the sadness of war at its most basic level, the fact that killing and losing friends and comrades would not create smiles and sunshine. In that way, the doleful theme fit into the battlefield in ways which couldn't quite be expressed in words.

Tyrone turned down to look at Randall-G307, who was clad in identical MJOLNIR, resting on his back down on the sidewalk next to Tyrone's makeshift seat. "Tough week," he murmured, breaking the silence.

Randall gave a hum of agreement, in tune with the concerto in the background. "Still the Master of Understatements, even after all these years," the other Spartan mused.

Tyrone gave a heavy grunt. He turned his attention to his battered and worn M90 shotgun, rubbing spot of grime off of its stock. "You hear where they'll be sending us next?"

Randall shrugged. "I heard that the 54th and the 60th will be relieving the 103rd in an hour or two. The Rebs have fallen back to 18th Avenue, so they will probably be carrying out an offensive there."

Tyrone nodded with approval. "Beat their asses back, then hit 'em again while they're still reeling," he summed up the upcoming offensive on 18th Avenue. "We're lucky; the generals here seem to know what they're doing."

Randall shrugged. "Fourteen hours is a long time. Any self-respecting army unit can create a nicely-fortified position in less than half that time."

"You're right…but still, fourteen hours is less than three to five days," Tyrone countered. "They may not even have had time to pull another unit to relieve the ones we fought here on 15th. We could be facing the same tired, exhausted, defeated men we just fought. 'Course, if any of those soldiers in gray were smart, they'd have hit the sack the moment their fortifications were up. Sleeping means living."

Tyrone and Randall continued to chat for another ten minutes. The quartet of strings players continued to play, changing the tune every now and then. The groups of marines from the nine companies of the 103rd Regiment continued on their way down the street back towards the rear of the line, and more men from the 54th and 60th Regiments gradually replaced them.

As the two Spartans continued to talk, a Gauss-model warthog pulled onto 15th Avenue from Canterbury Street, the intersection where the quartet of strings players were playing, and eventually pulled to a stop right in front of Tyrone and Randall. The man in the passenger seat hopped out. He was a bird colonel, older with graying hair, light brown eyes, and a hawk-like nose.

"Colonel Mosley, 103rd Regiment commanding officer," Mosley gave the two Spartans a quick salute. "You two fought well with us this past week, and I never truly thanked you."

"No need," Randall held up a hand. "We'd have drowned in thank-you notes before the Great War ended if every infantry commander we fought with sent us one."

Colonel Mosley chuckled. A high-ranking officer capable of emotion; most curious. "All the same, I'm afraid I'll have to thank you whether you like it or not. I lost a lot of boys on this street, but if not for you, that number would have been much higher. Even though they are not directly saying it—none of the boys would be caught dead doing so—they're all grateful. They really are," Colonel Mosley paused for a second, collecting his thoughts and moving on to why he had come. "Now then, I have a message for you both. General Armistead has requested your presence at Division HQ, something to do with the next offensive. This is urgent, so you are to report there right away. That is all," Mosley offered a final salute before climbing back into his warthog and driving off, heading for another section of 15th Avenue.

"Uh-huh…" Randall murmured. "Not every day we get to break bread with a general. I wonder what's so urgent that he needs us personally?"

Tyrone shrugged, sliding down off of his makeshift seat made of bricks. He extended a hand to Randall, who took it gratefully, pulling himself up.

The two Spartans found an abandoned mongoose on 14th Avenue. Its previous users were probably either dead or wounded, judging by the bloodstains on its chassis. Regardless of the fate of its previous users, Tyrone and Randall got it working again and sped off down the road, heading east towards 3rd Division HQ.

The trip took less than five minutes; Division HQ moved wherever the front went, unlike the Corps Headquarters, which remained stationary. Right now, 3rd Division HQ was situated in the remains of a small city park. Much of the grass was now trampled and torn up from the dozens of vehicles and thousands of men which had traversed it days earlier.

The command tent was set up in the center of the park. Like bees around a central honeycomb, men and women bustled about the whole place, fulfilling their respective duties, taking orders, organizing logistics; doing everything a command post does best.

Tyrone and Randall pulled the mongoose to a halt, killing the engine and hopping out. The crowd made way for the two armored men like they were radioactive. The two Spartans had a clear shot straight into the command tent, which was not really a tent, but a canopy covering the whole command post.

Major General Lothario Armistead was leaning over a holo-table, listening to his adjutant explain the possible aspects of the situation at 18th Avenue. Armistead was a shorter man. He was older in years, having thick brown hair which was streaked with gray and a full beard to match. The facial hair was frowned upon by the higher-ups in the UNSC military, but so far Armistead had never been told to shave it off, so he wore it proudly.

Armistead noticed the arrival of the two Spartans and looked up from the table, introducing himself. "Morning, gentlemen. Lothario Armistead, 3rd Division Commander," the general held out a hand to Tyrone.

Tyrone smiled to himself, his expression hidden behind the opaque golden faceplate. _This guy's got guts_…

Few men ever shook hands with a Spartan, fearing that their hands could be accidentally crushed. It hadn't happened yet, but…well, accidents are accidents.

Tyrone took the hand and gave it a good, strong shake, careful to avoid making Armistead a one-armed commander.

Armistead shook Randall's hand next. "Glad to finally meet you. Colonel Mosley informed me of how well you fought on 15th Avenue this past week and, quite frankly, we're going to need your talents again. Oh, before we continue, this is Major Pavel Zubarev, my adjutant," Armistead introduced the taller, black-haired man who was standing at the holo-table alongside him.

The major inclined his head, but said nothing. Tyrone got the impression that he was not a loudmouth.

Armistead got back down to business. "As you know, our victory here on 15th Avenue has pushed the Rebs south all the way to 18th Avenue," the general explained. A series of red dots on the holo-table appeared over the holographic 15th Avenue. A group of blue dots advanced onto the street and the red dots moved south several city blocks. Six days of bloodshed and death over this road, all summed up in less than five seconds with a few pretty lights.

"We are going to be hitting the Rebs on 18th Avenue in two hours time," Armistead continued. "But I need you two elsewhere. The Rebs launched a surprise counter-attack up here, in the industrial sector," the holographic representation of Ainsdell zoomed out far enough to see the industrial sector in the northern outskirts of the city, sandwiched between the downtown area of skyscrapers and large businesses and the arc of the Marisle River.

"Recon was faulty in this area," Major Zubarev admitted, his voice layered with a distinct Slavic accent, adjusting the holo-table and having it zoom in on the industrial sector. "I'll admit, we were so focused on pinching off the Main Boulevard that we paid less attention to our flanks than we should have."

"We had a battalion from the 29th Regiment occupying this sector…the Rebs attacked it with nothing less than a full regiment. We had no idea they had enough forces in this city to defend against our attack on the Main Boulevard and fight off General Wyvern's I Corps from the south to be able to mount a separate offensive all the way up in the north," Armistead sighed. "An unforgivable lapse of intelligence and judgment, but there is no use agonizing over it now. The Rebs have taken the train yard in that sector. They have split the defending battalion in two; two companies are fighting east of the train yard in the refineries, but the third has been trapped on the docks bordering the Marisle River."

"If they break through the rest of the industrial sector, they will be able to flank our entire line," Zubarev explained. "If they then poured enough forces behind an assault in that location, they could cut off our troops on the line from headquarters, and then strike either way. This _will_ not happen."

Armistead nodded, grunting in agreement. "I'm sending the rest of the 29th into the industrial sector, and I will be sending the 88th in reserve. I want you two to go in with the 29th. Give Colonel Westfield any assistance he needs. We need to retake the industrial sector and rescue that encircled company. Do either of you have any questions?"

"No, sir!" both Randall and Tyrone barked in unison.

"That will be all, then," Armistead dismissed the two Spartans with a final salute. "Report to the 29th's regimental HQ. Colonel Westfield will debrief you. Dismissed."

Tyrone and Randall returned the salutes before falling out of attention and hurrying back to their mongoose.

"Should have known that fourteen hours of no fighting was too good to be true…" Randall grumbled. "I can't really see the point of still fighting here; the city's more ruins than anything else."

Tyrone straddled the driver's seat, powering up the mongoose's engine and revving the motor. "As long as there are still living Insurrectionists here, we have to drive them out and slaughter them. Simple as that. The city is just the unlucky location."

Randall climbed onto the passenger's platform on the back of the mongoose, holding on as Tyrone gunned the engine, sending them streaking out of the park and away from Division HQ. The streets and buildings whizzed by along with columns of marines and warthogs driving this way and that.

"It really blows that we have to do this in a city, though," Randall grumbled as they bounced along, heading north-west. "If we were out in the open, we could bring in the tanks."

Tyrone grunted in agreement, but he kept his attention fixed on the road in front of him. "That's the whole point," he said. "That's why McCandlish is trying so hard to capture Firelso Square; that would send the Insurrectionists retreating to the west. And once they leave the city, we bring in the 13th Armored Division and rip them a new one."

"Were you at the general staff briefing?" Randall sounded puzzled. As far as he knew, Tyrone had not gone anywhere near 5th Division HQ at that time.

"No," Tyrone shook his head. "I've just fought in enough cities to know how generals think during urban warfare. _Good_ generals, that is. Can't speak for the shitty ones."

The trip to the 29th's headquarters took nearly twenty minutes; Insurrectionist artillery had torn up the roads pretty badly, and the industrial sector was pretty out of the way. When they _did_ reach the headquarters—a smaller command post set in the middle of a large four-way intersection in the outskirts of the industrial sector—what they found was pandemonium. Men were running this way and that around the command post, delivering dispatches and relaying orders, hashing out supplies and ammunition, or just shouting at one another.

Tyrone killed the mongoose's engine and hopped off. He and Randall made their way through this crowd of men and women, which did not part for them.

Colonel Westfield, the tall, lean, yellow-haired commander of the 29th Marine Regiment, was speaking with one of the operators trying to work a COM system. "Any progress yet?"

"No, sir, all channels are still down," the operator replied.

"Damn it all…" Westfield swore. He noticed his new arrivals and straightened up to receive them. "You must be the help General Armistead promised me…not much in the way of manpower, but I have to hand it to the old general; he always delivers, one way or another. Follow me."

The two Spartans followed the colonel, who called for his adjutant to run the CP during his absence. Colonel Westfield led the Spartans over to one of the holo-tables which had a representation of the industrial sector over its surface. "The industrial sector of Ainsdell takes up a good portion of the northern reaches of the city," he explained. Tyrone and Randall leaned in and took a good look at the image. Factories and refineries made up most of the eastern portion of the sector; docks lined the bank of the Marisle River, which formed the northern boundary of the sector and the city, leaving the western portions, which were a large, industrial train yard.

The familiar red dots representing Insurrectionist ground forces appeared in the train yard while the blue dots representing UNSC troops were splayed across the refineries, outside the train yard. All save for one, which was in the docks area to the north, surrounded by more red dots.

"2nd Battalion managed to break the Insurrectionist lines in the train yard fifteen minutes ago," Colonel Westfield gestured to the table. As Tyrone and Randall watched, the blue dots—each one must have represented a company—formed up in an organized fashion and set themselves upon the line of red occupying the trainyard. For a few seconds, neither side seemed to gain an advantage, but then part of the Insurrectionist line faltered ever so slightly. A blue dot leaped at the weakness and the Insurrectionist line fractured, falling back to another position.

"What are our orders, sir?" Tyrone asked.

Westfield muttered something to the table and the image disappeared. He then straightened up and faced the Spartans once more. "Your orders?" he repeated. "Your orders are to get your asses over to the train yard and help my boys push the Rebs out, generally speaking. If we lose this ground…" Westfield shook his head. "No, we will _not_ lose this ground. You will be reinforced if necessary by the 88th Regiment. Find a company commander when you get there; you'll get a sit-rep from one of them. I'm afraid you'll have to speak with them face-to-face; the Rebs have knocked out our COM again. If you have no further questions, then you are free to go."

Tyrone and Randall had none, so after saluting the colonel, they made their way back to their mongoose. Tyrone gunned the engine and drove off down the road heading west, deeper into the industrial sector. The residential and everyday commonplaces of the city were replaced by wire fences, factories, and refineries. Most of them were heavily damaged or ruined, but some were still in one piece, smoke still belching out of their smoke stacks.

Companies and platoons of marines were proceeding down this road and many others, all of them heading towards the train yard. They must have been men from the 88th Regiment, the ones who would be serving as reserve troops for the 29th. The ones walking west on the street were careful not to get in the way of the compact transport.

The familiar sounds of battle gradually grew louder and louder as the Spartans drew nearer to the train yard. The repetitious clatter of weaponsfire tore through the air, screams of wounded men, shouts from officers and noncoms all mixing into some sort of angry, savage symphony.

The refineries and factories of the industrial sector came to an abrupt end up ahead. The train yard was a huge, open allotment taking up the rest of the industrial sector. There were warehouses and buildings in between the train tracks crisscrossing the yard. Some trains still rested in their slots. There were observation and control towers placed at regular intervals all over the train yard. Tyrone could spot UNSC snipers in several of them, sharp reports coming from their rifles as they opened fire.

While the train yard itself was a large, open space, the presence of all of the warehouses and buildings and towers still made it only slightly better than close quarters city fighting. The spaces between train tracks were wide enough to be similar to the open streets, with ten-foot-tall concrete platforms between each track for the train's crew to disembark on. There were also enough buildings which were spaced close enough to each other to warrant a latticework of catwalks between them to allow individuals to walk from one building to another over the train tracks without climbing down to the ground floor.

Hundreds of UNSC marines in their green-black battledress were spread out fighting on the tracks and taking cover behind the buildings in between each railway. Heavy fire was tearing through some of those spaces as dug-in Insurrectionist soldiers vented their fury on the attacking marines.

Tyrone killed the engine and jumped out of the mongoose. A messenger with orders probably bound for regimental HQ was hurrying past as Tyrone climbed out, so the Spartans gave him the mongoose. "We won't be needing it anymore," Randall told the messenger, who sincerely thanked them before climbing onto the vehicle and driving off.

"COMs must be down again," Tyrone observed. "Otherwise they wouldn't have runners relaying orders and sit-reps."

Randall shrugged. "Long as we're here, we don't need a COM to aim and shoot."

The two Spartans weaved their way through several rows of buildings, running along the tracks. Wounded marines were being carried past them on stretchers or on the shoulders of comrades, bound for the field hospitals set up at the edge of the train yard where Randall and Tyrone had arrived. Runners with ammo and supplies were also running up to re-supply the marines at the front line.

The front line was a nexus of chaos. Marines were huddled behind cover, death incarnate flying over their heads and slamming into the concrete and metal behind them, into the barriers they were ducking under, into the metal railways, into the men unlucky or stupid enough to expose themselves for too long.

The two Spartans arrived at a part of the offensive line where a platoon of forty-odd marines was under cover inside and around a small administrations building. Makeshift barriers of concrete and bricks had been around the building's sides and marines were hunkered down behind those. Some of them blindly fired over the top, others managed to get a few potshots off by properly aiming before being forced down, while the rest simply sat there, either too scared or too smart to stick their heads up. Several unlucky marines who had done precisely that were sprawled out on the ground, pools of their life essence still staining the place where they lay.

As Tyrone and Randall sprinted forward, a stray round from an Insurrectionist heavy machinegun cleared the top of the barrier and slammed right into Tyrone's chest. The dark-skinned Spartan was thrown to the ground by the force, his MJOLNIR armor's energy shields sparkling as they absorbed the damage.

"Shit…" Tyrone muttered, angry at himself for getting hit so early on. _If I were not a Spartan, if I did not have this armor, I would be dead right now._

If a marine had been in his place, that man would now be dead. A man, a man with his own life, backstory, likes, dislikes, views, perspectives, emotions, triumphs, failures…erased in the blink of an eye by a heavy 7.62x51 mm round from a mounted heavy machinegun.

Tyrone shook his head, dispelling those thoughts. If he had not been a Spartan, he would have died years ago on Earth. No, scratch that; he actually would have died when his homeworld had been glassed by the Covenant twenty-three years ago. But he _was_ a Spartan, so what _might_ have happened was irrelevant. All he could do was pick up and keep going.

Randall helped Tyrone to his feet. "You alright?!" the other Spartan had to shout to make himself heard over the furious din of battle.

"Yeah, I'm good!" Tyrone shouted back, climbing back onto his feet. He closed the rest of the distance between himself and the building where the platoon of marines was occupying in a few seconds, Randall hot on his heels.

Tyrone grasped the shoulder of a young, baby-faced second-lieutenant who was desperately trying to get his COM to work. "Don't bother with your COM, sir; as long as the channels are being jammed it'll never work!" Tyrone shouted to the officer, who looked as if he was about to enter a state of shock upon seeing the Spartan. "Who's your commanding officer?!"

The young lieutenant, who was probably fresh out of the Officer Training Academy on the Moon, found his voice and answered in a faint voice, "Captain Breckinridge! He's over with 1st Platoon down at the next building!"

"Your captain is fighting?" Randall asked. "You don't have a company CP?"

The kid officer shook his head several times. "No; companies are moving back and forth too fast for command posts to follow! Only CP around here is the battalion CP, which is at the rear of the line!"

Tyrone nodded his thanks and turned to Randall. "How the hell are we supposed to get over to the next building?!" he shouted. "We'll get turned into spaghetti if we stick our noses out from behind this line!"

"The catwalks!" Randall gestured upwards. "They're made of sturdy metal; we should be able to-"

Suddenly, the air was filled with a screeching, whistling noise.

The cry of "Incoming!" and "Take cover!" rose from the throats of several marines in the vicinity.

"Artillery!" Tyrone shouted, followed by a handful of colorful, choice swearwords.

Artillery shells came screaming down from the sky, blowing sizeable craters in the ground wherever they hit. Most of the marines huddled around the administration building shattered the windows and hurled themselves inside. Tyrone and Randall followed suit, if only because they would have get inside anyways to get to the catwalk.

UNSC counterbattery-fire filled the air and slammed into the Insurrectionist positions as well. Tyrone saw a group of three marines—a man and a woman supporting a third woman with two bloody stumps where her legs used to be—hurrying past when a shell slammed into the ground right next to them. The wounded woman and the man were vaporized in the flash. Bits of the first woman survived the blast. Pieces of an arm and a human hand landed outside the window Tyrone had just jumped through.

A shell hit the roof of the administration building the platoon was taking cover in, blowing a large hole in the metal ceiling, sending shrapnel flying. Five marines were killed and eight more were wounded by the razor-sharp shrapnel. Cries for medics rose from wounded and unharmed throats.

After a few minutes, two men in green-black battledress wearing white armbands with red crosses on them jumped through the window. They moved over to where the wounded marines lay, tending to their injuries as best they could on the spot. One of them returned to the window and cupped a hand to his mouth, shouting for corpsmen.

Six men with similar armbands—their armbands had a gray background instead of a white one—bearing stretchers climbed through the windows. They loaded up three of the wounded onto stretchers and bore them away. They returned a few minutes later and took away three more men. The remaining two wounded had lighter injuries, so the 1st lieutenant in charge of the platoon ordered two of his men to carry those wounded back to the rear of the line with the corpsmen.

The two indicated marines got to their feet without a moment's hesitation and picked up their wounded comrades, climbing out the window and following the medics.

The barrage of artillery felt like an eternity, but it only lasted for nearly ten minutes before petering out. Artillery attacks were usually short and devastating; if you were to shell an area for long periods of time it would ruin the ground your men might later have to advance across.

The platoon of marines gradually crept out from the administration building. The silence outside was almost unnerving. After having a constant, continuous din of weaponsfire and screaming in the background for so long, silence seemed unnatural.

"If your commanders have any brain cells left from that barrage, they'll advance before the Insurrectionists can re-occupy their original positions," Randall said, more to himself than to the marines.

As if on cue, the platoon leader's COM unit crackled to life and a grainy voice issued forth. "All platoon leaders, this is Captain Breckinridge; gather your men and advance on the rebel positions immediately! We must close the no-man's-land before they re-occupy their lines, and to do that we have to _move!_ Breckinridge out!"

"The counter-barrage must've knocked out some of their jamming capabilities…" the platoon leader murmured. He adjusted his helmet and stood up. "3rd Platoon, on your feet!" he bawled. He and his sergeants herded the men out the doors and windows of the administration building and outside.

"Well, we can forget meeting the captain for now," Tyrone decided, moving to follow the marines. "Might as well join these men."

Tyrone and Randall leaped out the windows in the front of the building, the side facing towards the Insurrectionist lines.

With a collective, raw-throated yell, the platoon of marines all leaped off the concrete platform and onto the train tracks, sprinting as fast as they could west towards the old Insurrectionist positions. The scene was unfolding elsewhere as other platoons and squads and companies alike all over the line broke cover and charged across the train tracks in the no-man's-land towards the enemy. Others charged through the upper floors of the buildings and across the catwalks, advancing through the air and not on ground. Snipers moved up behind them to re-establish their lines of fire. It was like something straight out of the Civil War, only replacing surges of blue with ones of green-black.

A shot was fired, shattering the silence, and a UNSC marine a ways down the line keeled over, hit in the stomach. Several marines opened fire in retaliation. Several groups of Insurrectionist soldiers in gray battledress broke cover, trying to re-occupy their original line. Some of them did and the clatter of a mounted machinegun soon filled the air. A clump of men in the next platoon over were cut down as if the Grim Reaper himself had scythed them. In a way, he had.

Several more heavy machineguns blazed to life, firing at the advancing marines who were caught out in the open without cover. Tyrone found himself sorely missing Alex; if his old friend were here with his sniper rifle he would have silenced those mounted positions in seconds.

There were a few sharp reports from further back as snipers adjusted their aim. Some of the heavy machineguns fell silent, but not all. Some must have been placed with full cover, preventing snipers from taking out their gunners. Smart, but _highly_ inconvenient.

The groups of men in gray and marines in green-black reached the old Insurrectionist fortifications about the same time as each other and the whole conflict devolved into fierce hand-to-hand combat. Men crushed other men's skulls with the butts of their rifles; others fired concentrated bursts into enemies from point-black range. Many drew their combat knives and helped beleaguered comrades about to meet their ends.

Tyrone was at home in this environment. Sam had always been better at hand-to-hand than he was—she had the speed and agility over his superior strength—but he was by no means incompetent. His energy shields were almost constantly sparkling as stray weaponsfire struck him. His armor must have turned him into a target. Every so often the shields would die and he would have to rest a moment and allow them to recharge before rejoining the fray.

The Insurrectionists were exhausted. They had just recently fought tooth and nail to wrest the train yard away from a battalion of marines and had been fighting ever since. The men of the 29th were pulled from the rear of the II Corps' advance in the rest of the city; they were rested and well-prepped. As such, many Insurrectionist soldiers quickly fell to the rigors of hand-to-hand fighting. Gradually they were driven farther and farther back until a critical point was reached and they broke, abandoning their old positions and retreating farther back to try to form another line.

The 29th Regiment had no intentions of allowing them to do so.

A column of twenty or so warthogs emerged from behind the 29th's line and ran right into the fleeing Insurrectionists. Their turrets spun to life and opened up on them, mowing down a good number and driving deeper into their territory. Blazing rockets leaped out of windows and from around buildings, aimed at the warthogs. Two of the vehicles were hit, exploding into flames, and the rest were driven back.

By the time the Insurrectionists had re-established their line, nearly a mile back from their last one, the marines were right back on their doorstep.

This cycle repeated itself all throughout the day until the sky turned a dark blue hue and the sun sank low in the western sky. Finally, five charges later, night fell. The stars came out, visible through the layers of smoke and smog which had begun to settle over the industrial sector.

Then, after a semi-restful night, the sun rose and it all started over again.

By nearly midnight the next night, Tyrone found himself in almost the exact same place; trying to catch a few 'z's on the hard concrete ground behind a building. Only difference was that this building was closer to the other side of the trainyard than the last one had been.

After the platoon had, for the most part, hit the sack, silence fell over the train yard once more. The Insurrectionists were plainly grabbing some much-needed sleep. A man dressed in full battledress with captain's bars on his helmet approached the platoon from further on down the UNSC line. He was a shorter man with a five-o-clock shadow and a pencil-thin mustache occupying his upper lip. "Lieutenant Repton!" the captain rose his voice enough to be heard throughout this section of the line.

"Sir!" the platoon leader detached himself from his unit and approached the higher-ranking officer.

"Lieutenant, rouse your men and prepare your platoon," the captain, who Tyrone assumed to be Breckinridge, ordered his subordinate.

The platoon leader, Lieutenant Repton, looked surprised at this new order. "Sir?"

"Orders came in straight from Regimental HQ," Captain Breckinridge replied. "Colonel Westfield has ordered all company commanders to advance under cover of night. We're gonna hit the Rebs again, and we're gonna make sure that _this_ one is the coup-de-grâce. Check your watch and give me your time."

Lieutenant Repton checked his watch, which he kept fastened around his arm over his battle armor. "I have exactly 0116 hours, sir."

Captain Breckinridge checked his own watch and nodded, satisfied. "It pays to be certain," the company commander explained. "Everyone is going to advance at precisely 0130 hours. Rouse your men and keep a close eye on the time. We will be advancing in silence as well, so make sure no one gets trigger-happy along the way. Get it done."

With that, the captain vanished, most likely leaving to speak with another of his platoon leader.

Lieutenant Repton woke his four staff sergeants, who in turn roused all of the men in their respective squads. Inside of five minutes, the whole platoon had been aroused and prepped. Tyrone had woken up Randall and they now stood with those marines on the train tracks, waiting for the order to advance as the seconds ticked by.

"You guys must have it rough," one of the marines next to Randall observed, eyeing up the Spartans.

"Not really; the shit we've been going through hasn't been much different than what you're going through now," Randall shrugged.

A few more marines joined in the conversation and they chatted with the Spartans for a little while until a noncom hissed for them to shut up.

Finally after an agonizingly-long wait of nine minutes, Lieutenant Repton issued the order. "Advance," he whispered.

There were no lights in the train yard this time of night; power had been cut long ago and Irivet V had no moons. Aided by night-vision HUD settings on their helmets, the marines all advanced down the train tracks.

Tyrone and Randall, due to their augmented retinas, could clearly see through the dark. The entire UNSC line in the train yard, now comprising of the 29th Regiment and a few elements of the 88th, was advancing down the train tracks between the buildings as one. It was almost like a police line at a campsite searching for trash, only it was much thicker and more concentrated; the marines advanced in columns up the train tracks, not through the buildings. Advancing around the buildings meant climbing over the concrete platforms, so it was avoided. Instead of one huge, solid line, it was more an advance of smaller columns moving in a line parallel to each other.

The marines all advanced stealthily, keeping all possible noise down to a bare minimum. Once or twice there was a cough or a sneeze, but nothing readily gave them away.

The marines were only fifty yards from the Insurrectionist lines when they were spotted by enemy sentries. The moment the first alert was shouted from the Insurrectionist line, UNSC company commanders bawled at the top of their lungs for their men to charge.

The UNSC line smashed into the Insurrectionists, who were only just waking up. Marines opened fire, slaughtering the sleeping men in gray who occupied the forward line. Mounted gun positions were wiped out before any crews could man them.

There was another whistling sound through the air, accompanied by a series of nearly deafening explosions. UNSC artillery was now pounding the Insurrectionists as well. The barrage didn't last very long; the higher-ups knew that if it went too long it would begin to hit their own troops.

The forward line fell in a matter of minutes. The marines took no prisoners; taking POWs and getting them to the rear took time. When you were hitting the enemy with the element of surprise, and then trying to rush them before they got on their feet, time was a luxury you did not have.

The Insurrectionists manning the lines further back managed to throw up an impromptu resistance, though they were still tired from being rudely roused from sleep, dazed from the artillery barrage which had just torn into their rear, and confused as they were shot and attacked in the darkness.

A heavy machinegun began to clatter in the distance, but there was an answering _**crack**_ from a UNSC sniper. The machinegun fell silent.

Tyrone leaped over a concrete barrier and emptied two shells into the group of four Insurrectionists hunkered down behind it. A fifth man further away primed a frag grenade and heaved it in Tyrone's direction. Tyrone, his heightened reflexes kicking in, whipped around and dove for the grenade. He caught it in midair, turned, and chucked it back at the man who threw it.

The grenade exploded in front of the man. The man did not die, unfortunately; he lay on the ground with his chest blown open and his entrails exposed. He screamed in agony, writhing around on the ground, only worsening his state.

Tyrone drew his magnum and mercifully ended the Insurrectionist's suffering.

The advance took nearly fifteen minutes before the 29th found themselves breaking through the Insurrectionist's rear lines. The Insurrectionists finally managed to put up a good fight at their last line of defense in the train yard, but they had lost too much materiél in the rest of the onslaught. Most of their heavy machineguns had been captured and their ammo stocks were quickly taken as well. They held the marines at bay for a little while, but were soon forced to abandon their positions.

"Should we pursue?" Lieutenant Repton asked finally as the marines watched the Insurrectionists flee the train yard, streaming through the buildings of the district in Ainsdell city adjacent to the industrial sector.

"Negative," Captain Breckinridge replied over the COM. "Our objective was to retake the industrial sector, not the entire northern quadrant of the city. Leave that to whoever the Old Samurai chooses."

The sky in the east brightened as the marines finished securing the train yard and building up extensive fortifications.

Although he knew he needed it, Tyrone could not sleep, not after everything he had just done was still fresh in his mind. He sat next to Randall on the roof of one of the crane towers further back towards the eastern side of the train yard, watching the sky brighten.

As the sun finally crested the eastern horizon and began its ascent into the sky, Tyrone could now clearly see the entire battlefield, and the thing that was most prevalent in his mind were those low, somber tones of the Beethoven music which the quartet of marines had been playing on 15th Avenue two days ago.

The classical music was beginning to grow on him.

He looked at the battlefield. He saw the corpses littering the entire place; he saw the burnt-out husks of warthogs and heavy machinegun positions. Buildings burned, train tracks were torn and rent asunder. He heard the sound of UNSC artillery in the distance, shelling another faraway target which another portion of 3rd Division was fighting.

"Helluva week…" he muttered to himself.


	40. Chapter 39: Firelso Square

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Firelso Square

**1127 Hours, October 13, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Eight Days Later)  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

**Ainsdell City, Main Boulevard**

Lieutenant General Hiroshi Hasegawa was filled with a mix of relief and foreboding. 3rd and 5th Divisions had finally pushed the Insurrectionists out of the northern and eastern quadrants of Ainsdell and onto the Main Boulevard, finally closing the pincer which they had been forming around the main road.

A portion of the Insurrectionist forces were trapped as the two UNSC Divisions linked up. This had occurred two days ago and soldiers in gray were still surrendering in droves to rear echelon troops, who were processing them and dealing with them accordingly.

Hasegawa did not concern himself with POWs; that was not his job. His job was to carve a path into Firelso Square and link up with Lieutenant General Wyvern, who commanded the other Corps in the First Expeditionary Force. General McCandlish had dropped by several times to check up on him, but for the most part the field commander was off overseeing General Wyvern, who was relatively newer to command.

Hasegawa had left II Corps Headquarters and was currently on the top floor of an intact skyscraper in downtown Ainsdell, which was right next to Firelso Square, to personally oversee the final advance. When you wanted things done right, sometimes it paid to do them yourself, no matter how much you trusted your subordinates.

The past few days had almost been a blur. After taking 15th Avenue, elements of 3rd Division pushed forward and tore 18th Avenue away from the Insurrectionists before they could establish a solid line. The resistance after 18th Avenue was superficial. Major General Morrison's 5th Division had a similar story, though they had slightly more trouble because there were a lot more ruins in the areas they were fighting through. Those areas were probably the areas the colonial militia had retreated through before the UNSC Seventh Fleet had arrived in-system to help Irivet V and, as such, would have been subject to heavy Insurrectionist bombardment.

Everything had been going smoothly until the Insurrectionists had taken half of the industrial sector. Hasegawa was still marveling at how well General Armistead had handled that. The 3rd Division Commander hadn't even needed to defer to Hasegawa; he had solved the problem and retaken the train yard in the north by himself. His division had only been a few hours late in linking up with 5th Division, apt considering two of its regiments were still tied up in the north, keeping the Insurrectionists from trying to flank the entire UNSC advance a second time.

3rd and 5th Divisions had finally linked up on the Main Boulevard yesterday morning and had been fighting on the large road ever since. Both Divisions took turns on the front line, each relieving the other when the one on the front had fought long enough. The marines were not advancing down just the Main Boulevard, though; Hasegawa had regiments from both divisions advancing in a long line down the adjacent streets as well as the adjacent districts. Firelso Square was crucial, but capturing it meant nothing if the surrounding districts were not captured along with it.

Hasegawa was standing on the top floor of a skyscraper overlooking the Main Boulevard, observing the raging battle through a pair of field glasses. With him was a team of technicians and operators running the makeshift CP which had been set up in the room. Limited COM communication had been restored, allowing Hasegawa to exert command over his two divisions even while away from his command center.

The portable COM station set up in the room crackled to life as Hasegawa continued to watch the fight in the street below.

The voice that issued forth belonged to Major Paul Fairbanks, Hasegawa's adjutant. Fairbanks was heading up operations at the Corps HQ in Hasegawa's absence. "Hey there, Hiroshi; just checking to make sure you're still alive out there," Fairbanks said.

"I'm still here, Paul," Hasegawa replied. "Anything happening back on the Marisle?"

"I intercepted a message from Harrington to General McCandlish," Fairbanks continued. "Said he had a brief skirmish in the woods south of the city, but other than that it's been quiet. Quite frankly, he's bored as hell, sir."

Hasegawa chuckled quietly to himself. Lieutenant General Harrington was the younger, fiery-tempered man in charge of the 13th Armored Division, the First Expeditionary Force's armor. The 13th Armored was an independent unit in the First Expeditionary Force, not attached to either I or II Corps, and as such was commanded by a Lieutenant General to give it equal standing with the Corps Commanders.

"I bet he is," Hasegawa murmured. He spoke with his adjutant for another ten or so minutes, learning everything that was going on at II Corps HQ before killing the channel and resuming with his observation.

He watched the marines on the street gradually push the Insurrectionist soldiers in gray back towards Firelso Square.

Firelso Square was the large, central nexus of Ainsdell City. Its boundaries were a solid wall of shops and buildings, broken only by the streets which led into the place. Hasegawa could see it from his skyscraper. It was less than a klick away; II Corps had made some very good progress the past couple of weeks.

He noticed a column of gray on an adjacent street creeping up on the briefly-exposed flank of a regiment two streets away from the Main Boulevard. He quickly activated his COM and notified General Morrison of the fact. If Morrison wasn't able to deal with that, he wouldn't have been a Division Commander in the first place.

The exposed flank closed up as another regiment advanced to close the line. Hasegawa smiled to himself and turned his attention elsewhere. Sometimes he wondered if he was spoiled by his Division Commanders; they rarely needed guidance when it came down to their areas of conflict. Hasegawa had no doubt that either Morrison or Armistead would easily be able to do his job if he was ever wounded or killed.

_Just as well_…_I'm not a young man anymore_…

The column of Insurrectionists fell upon the two regiments they had been advancing on. That part of the line halted briefly as it dealt with this new threat, but the UNSC advance was moving forward again in less than ten minutes.

Hasegawa continued to follow their progress with his field glasses, keeping close contact with his division commanders and occasionally with a colonel from a specific regiment who was about to run into a problem that needed quick and decisive fixing.

The Corps Commander received a transmission from General McCandlish once, informing him of I Corps' progress. After that, he no longer sent any word.

Though the advance was going well, Hasegawa had an uneasy feeling in his gut. His mind stretched back to his days in the Officer Training Academy decades ago, back when Harvest was breaking news. One of his instructors there had said something which Hasegawa had lived by—and survived by—for the rest of the war.

_If your attack is going well, odds are you're walking into a trap._

The advance was running into a few snags on the Main Boulevard, but from what Hasegawa could see from his observation post, his corps was making pretty good progress. Ever since II Corps had been deployed at the banks of the Marisle River, the drive to Firelso Square had been a huge, bloody, bitter struggle for every city block. And now here were the same men who had made that advance so difficult for him suddenly retreating like startled rabbits.

The Academy instructor's words kept reverberating through the older Japanese general's head. Regardless of any uneasy thoughts Hasegawa was having, he still had to press forward. Firelso Square _had_ to be taken; simple as that. If springing a possible Insurrectionist trap was what it took to make that happen, then…well, then so be it.

Hasegawa was sure McCandlish was having similar thoughts; the north-Englishman had served as a company commander in Mombasa throughout the Battle of Earth at the end of the Great War. An infantry commander didn't survive an ordeal such as that without being cautious. At the same time, the UNSC had been on defensive during that battle; the Humans were the ones who were setting traps, not the Covenant. Now, the tables were turned. Humans had always been superior tacticians than Covenant commanders in the Great War, but now the UNSC was fighting fellow Homo sapiens. Whatever 'advantages' Humanity had had during the Great War, if any, they were now gone.

_And McCandlish has no choice either,_ Hasegawa thought to himself. _If he loses Ainsdell, he'll catch all kinds of hell from HIGHCOM. They'd crucify him._

The sun was burning in the west by the time the foremost regiments began to brush upon the outer defenses of Firelso Square. Hasegawa watched these engagements through his field glasses, his face gradually contorting into an expression of extreme distaste as he watched the marines set themselves upon the Insurrectionist defenses.

The Corps Commander turned to one of the COM stations and activated it, respectfully moving away from the other operators. "Hello, 13th Armored? This is Lieutenant General Hasegawa, II Corps Commander. Get me General Harrington. _Harrington,_" Hasegawa repeated himself; the line was full of static.

"Hold a second, sir," the operator at the other end said.

There was a slight scuffle from the other end of the line as the channel was transferred to a different station. Finally, a younger, louder, sharp voice with the consistecy of sandpaper barked out of the COM. "Yes, this is Harrington, to whom do I owe the pleasure?" the commander of the First Expeditionary Force's armored forces replied, though his tone was not polite. Hasegawa heard the true question beneath Harrington's brusque tones;_ Why are you wasting my time?_

Hasegawa allowed himself a half-smile as he responded. "This is Lieutenant General Hasegawa."

"Oh!" Harrington's tone immediately became more polite. "Hiroshi, good to hear from you! What can I help you with? Please, _please_ give me something to help you with; my boys are dying of boredom out here."

"General, I could use some artillery at Firelso Square right now; my men are having trouble pushing the Insurrectionists out of their prepared positions. I want you to soften them up."

"Artillery?" Harrington asked again for clarification's sake. "Yeah…yeah, I could give you that. Give me a second to contact my artillery regiments…"

Hasegawa waited for a few seconds until Harrington returned on the line and requested the appropriate coordinates for the barrage. Hasegawa glanced at the Insurrectionist line one last time and cross-examined them with a holo-map. He then gave Harrington his coordinates and told him to wait thirty seconds before commencing.

That done, Hasegawa thanked Harrington and killed the channel before opening up a new one with Armistead and Morrison, his two division commanders. "3rd and 5th Division commands, this is General Hasegawa. Get into contact with your regiments on the line and pull them back immediately; I have artillery inbound to soften up the Insurrectionist positions."

The Corps Commander received acknowledgment from Armistead and Morrison and, sure enough, within ten seconds he saw the regiments attacking the outer defenses of Firelse Square break off their assaults and fall back to a safer position.

The screechy whistling of artillery followed soon after.

Hasegawa watched as General Harrington rained fire and chaos down on the Insurrectionist lines. He watched shells tear apart heavy machinegun positions which entire companies of marines would not be able to take. The soldiers in gray were torn apart when shells hit the ground close to them. Hasegawa might have felt sick thirty years ago, but after over twenty years' worth of seeing the horrors plasma could wreak on the Human body, he was not affected in the slightest.

Insurrectionist counterbattery-fire boomed in the distance, but they had no idea what they were shooting at.

The barrage petered out in five minutes. The division commanders seized the opportunity and drove their marines forward. The tide of green-black hit the weakened Insurrectionist lines and quickly routed the meager resistance the survivors of the barrage had managed to put up. Without their heavy machinegun positions, the Insurrectionists by themselves could not hold that line. Hasegawa made a mental note to commend Harrington's artillerists for their accuracy and effectiveness; that barrage had really torn the Insurrectionist defenders a new one.

Slowly and steadily, one regiment pushed its way into Firelso Square, then another, and then another. Soon, both 3rd and 5th Divisions had men inside the central nexus of Ainsdell.

Hasegawa checked his watch. It was 1800 hours, six o' clock PM in normal time. Gaining a foothold before nightfall would certainly help a lot. The Corps Commander returned his attention to the battle raging now in Firelso Square.

The Square itself was rather large; two to three miles across and filled with gardens, pathways, roads, fountains, statues, and many other adornments inside of its wide expanse. Hasegawa's men had finally broken in through the eastern perimeter of the Square while the Insurrectionists occupied several prepared lines within the Square itself.

Hasegawa sighed to himself. Every battle, every skirmish from these past couple of weeks had been fought with the ultimate goal of reaching Firelso Square. Now that they were finally there…Hasegawa shook his head.

This one was going to be tough.

As Hasegawa brooded, he spotted two columns of soldiers in gray pour into the square from the west, reinforcing their comrades and fighting the UNSC marines in green-black to a stand-still in the eastern perimeter.

Hasegawa observed the Square's southern perimeter, but all was quiet in that area. "Where the hell is I Corps?" he murmured. General Wyvern's Corps was supposed to be breaking through from the south and linking up with Hasegawa's Corps, but there was no sign of it. He was late. When Hasegawa asked one of the technicians manning a COM station to find out where I Corps was, the technician gave a shrug.

"Sorry sir," the operator said, "The COM just went down again. Rebs must have their jammers back online…"

Hasegawa clamped his mouth shut to keep any swear words from slipping out. Men serving under Hasegawa would comment on how they had never once heard him curse, and that was for good reason; he purposefully prevented himself from doing so. If he had a problem, he would not swear and whine about it.

"What good am I up here if I cannot contact my subordinates?" Hasegawa sighed. It was rhetorical, not needing an answer and already having one.

"Sir, perhaps you should return to Corps HQ," the operator suggested.

"No," Hasegawa shook his head. "No, I'm going to the front. Firelso Square is the most crucial part of this campaign; I will not sit this one out on the sidelines. Besides…I have a funny feeling about the Rebs defending the place…"

Hasegawa strode out of the room and headed straight for the elevator in the hallway, which was still miraculously functioning, and rode it straight down to the ground floor. Once it dinged, the doors slid open and he stepped out, crossing through the front lobby, out the front entrance, and outside.

He stepped down onto the sidewalk. The roads were mostly empty; any marines who were capable of fighting were further up in Firelso Square. Hasegawa climbed into his personal warthog which he had left parked out around the side of the building in a secluded back alley. The Corps Commander powered up the engine and gunned it, speeding out of the alley and down the street. He followed the street for one block until it intersected with the Main Boulevard. He then turned down the main road and continued down that way towards Firelso Square until he started to run into advancing groups of marines and supplies on their way to the front. He slowed down so as to not flatten anyone, but kept driving at a persistent pace until he finally reached the outer perimeters of the Square itself.

The sounds and smells of battle were strong here, carried east by the wind. Hasegawa could not see Firelso Square in its entirety from this vantage point; all that was visible was a cloud of hazy smog kicked up by the fighting. In that haze he could see silhouettes of statues and other structures and the marines taking cover behind them. White-hot streaks which were heavy weaponsfire made extra visible by the smog sliced through air, slamming into the first solid object or person they ran into. Screams and Shouts could be heard as well, though they were part of a greater din.

Hasegawa killed the engine to the warthog and hopped out. A platoon of marines led by a lieutenant who were walking past nearly tripped themselves up in surprise when they saw who was getting out of the vehicle.

"General Hasegawa, sir!" the lieutenant snapped to attention and fired off a quick salute.

"Carry on," Hasegawa waved the lieutenant on, sighing with a slight feeling of irritation. That was one of the drawbacks of wearing stars; the men under you always acted formal to the extreme. It was impossible to get close to your men when your mere presence was enough to make them sweat, either in fear or in awe. Hasegawa fell into the latter category, but the outcome and effect was still the same.

The lieutenant and his men hurried on down the road and into Firelso Square. They were soon lost in the smog, one more gear in the machine of war.

II Corps had taken enough of Firelso Square to establish a foothold and headquarters inside of it, but not enough to render those headquarters as permanent establishments. Holding Firelso Square was not yet a certainty.

Hasegawa made his way through the sea of headquarters workers, engineers, auxiliaries, and wounded. Field hospitals also were established around the perimeter to accommodate the dozens of wounded marines who had been wounded already and the dozens, maybe hundreds, more to come. Corpsmen were constantly bringing wounded men—some swearing their vocal cords filthy, some screaming their lungs out, others simply motionless—in on stretchers even as Hasegawa made his way towards what appeared to be the CP for 5th Division. The Corps Commander could only speculate at the Hell the medics and combat surgeons were going through right now.

The command post for 5th Division was a compound CP; a temporary set-up where the regimental commanders were corresponding as well. The colonels in charge of the regiments—and majors in charge of the ones with dead or wounded colonels—were fighting on the front lines with their men, but they still reported back to the CP every so often to give updates on their positions and status.

Hasegawa spotted the tall, iron-jawed, grim figure of Major General George Morrison, 5th Division Commander. The old Japanese general nodded approvingly to himself; it was good that General Morrison was operating right up on the front lines as well. Lothario Armistead was no doubt operating in the other compound CP as well, located two klicks to the north.

Hasegawa could see the toll the battle was taking on General Morrison just by looking at his face. The dark circles under his eyes had gone from visible to painfully obvious.

"General Hasegawa, sir," Morrison offered Hasegawa a nod, but that was it. No salute or greeting.

Hasegawa couldn't blame the man; he had never been a talkative individual and right now he was running on his backup stores of energy.

"COMs just got knocked out again," Hasegawa told his subordinate, though Morrison probably had already figured that out.

"Yes, sir; I've had to resort to sending runners out to my regiments," Morrison sighed. "I have to say…it's this kind of fighting like we're doing now that can drive a man to drink."

"I hear you," Hasegawa sympathized.

Morrison did not complain any farther on the issue. After all, he knew that Hasegawa had his own problems doubled; the Old Samurai had _two_ divisions to keep running, not just one.

"How about the two Spartans you were assigned; have they helped?"

This time Morrison nodded, an expression of gratefulness on his face. "I still don't think anyone's fully grasped just how much they've made this advance possible. The two with my division and the other two with General Armistead's have helped us more than you know."

Suddenly, there was the faint whine of a mongoose engine as one of the compact vehicles cut right through the smog and sped up to the CP. The driver, a major in his fifties judging by the wrinkles on his face and the oakleaf cluster on his sleeves, jumped out of the seat and hurried over into the command area, calling for General Morrison.

"General Morrison, sir!" the major snapped a quick salute and continued to speak before he got an answer. Knowing Morrison, the general probably wouldn't have bothered ti give one. "Sir, I'm Major DiAngelo, 32nd Regiment Executive Officer. Sir, a whole 'nother division of Rebs just poured into the Square and they're hitting us pretty hard. My regiment is our division's right flank, sir; if we fold so does everything else. We _need_ assistance, and we need it an hour ago."

"Jesus H…" Morrison swore under his breath. "Alright…listen, every single regiment in the division is getting the tar beaten out of them right now by heavy Insurrectionist reinforcements…I'll channel some elements of the 57th which are still coming into the square to your area, but that's the best I can do. Stripping one area to help another will only hurt us more."

"Yes, sir," the major turned on his heel and left, climbing back onto his mongoose and speeding back towards his regiment to report back to his superior.

Morrison sat down in front of one of the holo-tables and took several deep breaths. He finally slammed a fist down onto the table's surface and vented some of his pent-up frustration which he had been keeping bottled up for too long. "Where the _hell_ is General Wyvern?!" he exclaimed. "He was supposed to be breaking into this square earlier this morning! Sir," the division commander turned to Hasegawa. "Sir, we need the _entire_ Expeditionary Force to take this square; that, or Harrington's armor and artillery. One Corps can't do it."

Hasegawa said nothing. He knew Morrison was right, and Morrison knew it too. Lieutenant General Wyvern's I Corps was late. Judging by the sun's position in the sky it probably wouldn't have any hope of linking up with II Corps until tomorrow, by which time many marines would be dead.

"Have you heard anything from General McCandlish, sir?" Morrison asked next.

Hasegawa shook his head. "No, not since the last time the COM channels went to hell."

"This does not work out well, splitting the two Corps up from each other," Morrison sighed. "McCandlish should have a central command station from which he gives orders to you and to General Wyvern, who in turn deal with us Division Commanders. When you have our two Corps attacking from two completely different directions, there _is_ no central command. He has to jump from one side of the city to the other."

It wasn't until the sun had long since sunk beneath the western horizon Hasegawa gave General Morrison the order to cease his assault. General Armistead at 3rd Division HQ received the same order right afterwards; Firelso Square and the surrounding districts simply couldn't be taken with a single Corps. Until I Corps arrived, II Corps was stuck.

As nightfall set in, the lines gradually fell silent.

Hasegawa could not sleep, and neither could Morrison. They eventually decided to personally observe the regiments at the front line; it was dark and there was no shooting, removing most of the threat of short life expectancy for the two generals.

The marines they visited, for the most part, did not bother with fancy salutes or groveling, for which Hasegawa was internally grateful. Hasegawa was offered a cigarette by a grizzled sergeant from the 57th Regiment, which he accepted. He rarely ever smoked; it wouldn't kill him to loosen up just this once.

The 54th Regiment was a unit of 3rd Division, but it was right smack-dab in the center of the UNSC line in Firelso Square. Hasegawa and Morrison, when they moved on to that particular regiment, were invited to join in a poker game with a good-sized group of soldiers ranging from a gruff old 1st Sergeant up to a light colonel.

Hasegawa had forgotten how much he missed the game. Even as a young lieutenant back when the Great War was in its infant stages he had enjoyed playing with his fellow platoon leaders and subordinate noncoms. He would always have his trademark look of serenity on his face as he played, that same look he wore during battle, which could also serve as an almost invincible poker face. It was that, among several other mannerisms and traits, which coined him the nickname 'Old Samurai', which most of his men affectionately referred to him as.

Even General Morrison allowed himself a smile and a few laughs, expressions of emotion most would have thought him incapable of. The game lasted several hours into the night. It was roughly 0130 hours when Hasegawa and Morrison detached themselves from the table and began to head back.

As Fate would have it, Major General Armistead was also visiting the 54th when they got up to leave. They ran into him just as they were passing the commanding colonel's CP.

"Well I'll be damned, Hiroshi; you actually got Morrison out of his cave!" Armistead chuckled, clapping both of his old friends over the shoulders.

Hasegawa chuckled quietly to himself as well. This whole meeting must just be fulfilling that stereotype most soldiers had that all generals knew each other. That was not true, but the three generals of II Corps went a while back with each other.

On the flipside of having long friendships such as those, it makes it twice as painful when Fate decides to take them away.

At first, all Hasegawa heard was a muffled _whump_ in the darkness out in the no-man's-land between the Insurrectionist lines and those of the First Expeditionary Force. Normally Hasegawa would have dismissed it, but when he heard dozens of identical sounds right after the first, the realization of what was about to happen snapped into his mind.

His body reacted faster than his thought process did; he was already hitting the dirt when all Hell broke loose.

The air roared and the earth quaked as huge explosions erupted all over the UNSC line. The marines were caught completely off-guard; they were not prepared for a nighttime assault, let alone one like this.

An explosion went off several yards away from where the three generals were standing. All Hasegawa remembered was a blinding white flash and the sound of a distant marine crying out, "Tanks! Holy Christ, they've got tanks!"

Hasegawa found himself on the ground, lying on his back, twenty feet away from where he had been standing. His back and side felt warm and wet. A pair of strong arms grasped him under his arms from behind and started to drag him away from the front lines. More _whumps_ accompanied by massive explosions slammed into the 54th's line in every place.

No, not the 54th's line…there _was_ no line anymore.

Hasegawa raised his head and got a good look at himself. His right side was drenched in red. Blood was flowing freely through a large wound near his stomach. He could see the dull glint of the shrapnel embedded in his gut as he studied it. His hands fumbling, he reached into his inner pocket and quickly took out his morphine shot, injecting himself with the pain-suppressing agent before his brain could properly register the amount of agony that wound was causing.

Hasegawa managed to crane his neck to get a better look at his surroundings. Fires were burning all over, casting a hellish red glow across everything with shadows dancing all over the place. Marines were running for their lives, sprinting back east towards the edge of Firelso Square. Other marines were carrying and supporting wounded comrades as they went. Advancing out of the darkness beyond what used to be the UNSC line were huge, dark behemoths, moving slowly, but steadily, shooting fire and death from their barrels. Dark silhouettes of infantrymen were marching alongside them, firing away with everything they had at the fleeing marines.

"Tanks?!" Hasegawa croaked. "Since when did the Rebs have _armor_ in the-" the Corps Commander's voice faltered and died as he was dragged past the place where he had been standing. What was left of Major General George Morrison was sprawled out on the ground, blood and entrails soiling his uniform. He was missing an arm and-

Hasegawa looked away; he couldn't bear the sight of his old friend mutilated like that. His eyes stung with tears and he bit back a sob. War had taken away many of his friends from his younger years and childhood. War had taken away his eldest son, who had died storming a beachhead on Installation 00, and his wife, who had been killed in the Battle of Kyoto. And now, War was taking away his old warhorse friends. Where would it stop?

"His body must have shielded us from the blast," Hasegawa looked up and saw that it was General Armistead who had spoken, and it was he who was dragging him to safety. Miraculously, the 3rd Division Commander was unharmed, if a little shell-shocked.

"Lothario…" the Corps Commander started to say.

"Shut up, Hiroshi; you're wounded," Armistead spoke like a mother speaking to a naughty child. Hasegawa, who was beginning to have trouble staying conscious, obeyed his subordinate without complaint.

He could hear Armistead crying out for a corpsman. When he screamed that it was the Corps Commander who was down, a pair of corpsmen appeared out of nowhere within ten seconds, both of them bearing a stretcher.

"Oh, Jesus…" one of the corpsmen breathed as he observed Hasegawa's wound. "That's gonna hurt like a bitch…" the language slipped out of the man's mouth, which had forgotten that it was addressing a lieutenant general. Hasegawa did not mind, though; he did not want the man sugarcoating anything to him like he was weak of mind. The corpsman dressed the stomach wound and filled it with bio-foam. It wouldn't do the job on its own, but it would last the Corps Commander until he got to a surgeon.

"Hang in there, sir," the other man said as he laid the stretcher down on the ground. "We'll get you onto a transport to the rear of the line, pronto."

Hasegawa tried to speak, but the words came out slurred and unintelligible.

"We'll take him from here, sir," one of the corpsmen said to General Armistead. Armistead relinquished his hold on his old friends, allowing the corpsmen to lift Hasegawa up onto the stretcher.

Hasegawa felt himself being carried. The corpsmen were hurrying; the Insurrectionist tanks and soldiers were hot on the retreating II Corps' heels. The trip was bumpy and uncomfortable. Hasegawa did not mind, though. As long as he couldn't feel the full pain of the belly wound, he wouldn't have minded a roller coaster-ride to safety, so long as he didn't get peppered a second time.

"We'll load you up here, sir," a corpsman said as they reached a waiting transport warthog filled with several over wounded men. "The doctors will fix you up…"

Hasegawa could detect the rest of the unfinished statement. _Hopefully_. The field hospitals had been uprooted by the sudden Insurrectionist armored attack, and the doctors would need to re-establish themselves elsewhere before they could hope to care for wounded marines again.

Hasegawa was gently lifted off the stretcher and laid out on the floor of the back of the warthog, in between a moaning private with a mangled leg and an unconscious sergeant with a head wound.

Just as the pain of the stomach-wound began to kick in, Hasegawa finally slid into unconsciousness. The last thing he remembered was the hum of the warthog's engine and the red smoke beginning to move away as the vehicle started to drive away from Firelso Square.

The sounds from all around him became muffled and static and the red smoke overhead among the buildings and stars in the sky grew blurry.

Then it all went black.


	41. Chapter 40: Third Time's the Charm

Chapter Forty: Third Time's the Charm

**0031 Hours, October 16, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Andorra Region, Terra Firma**

This time, Robin Ambrose slept like there was no tomorrow. Before his first op in the Jethro Region, thoughts had been tearing through his head like a tornado through the Mid-West back on Earth. He had barely been able to sit still then, let alone sleep.

That first op in the Jethro Region had, all things considered, gone very well. Francis, the commander of the Spec Ops team Robin was a part of, had reported the twelve-year-old's performance in the field to Colonel Robertson as extremely satisfactory. Anyone who didn't know Francis personally would consider that to be light acknowledgment, but Robin knew that, coming from someone like Francis, 'satisfactory' was high praise indeed.

Colonel Robertson and the Illuminatus had sent him on a second mission last week. For his second go, Robin and the rest of the team had destroyed a large section of Magistarium train tracks in the hot, dry heartlands of Terra Firma, hampering the transportation of materiél from the myriad factories of the Andorra Region to the other parts of Nemesis III. The Magistarium kicked up a big fuss over that; they _needed_ those supplies for the Main Invasion.

Even now, the hundreds of ships which made up the Main Invasion fleet were consolidating in orbit over Nemesis III, preparing to depart for UNSC space.

Robin Ambrose was not watching the sky from his usual place on the floor of the Spec Ops team's pelican. Instead, he was sprawled out on his back in that very same spot, fast asleep. It was a lighter sleep, dark and without dreams. When he was finally shaken awake by Francis, it wasn't too hard to overcome the initial fatigue of waking up.

"We there yet?" the twelve-year-old murmured, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the morning blurriness.

Francis rolled his eyes. "No, I'm just waking you up so that you don't miss the spectacular sightseeing Eugene and I have been doing. Take a look at those stars!" the team leader muttered, keeping his deadpan monotone all throughout. He was still shaking his head as he made his way through the rest of the pelican's hold, shaking the other members of the Spec Ops team awake. "_Kids_…" he sighed, under his breath.

Robin grabbed his battle-rifle and quickly prepped it, inserting a fresh magazine into the chamber and making the routine adjustments to the scope.

This was his third op. Robin still had not quite vanquished the nervousness which still took root in his gut, but he was no longer as jumpy as an insane asylum patient. His second op had not been quite as eventful as his first one—it would be difficult to top blowing up the weapons facility in the Jethro Region—but he had still been timid in battle. He no longer hesitated to open fire at Human hostiles like he had in the fuel depot mission, which had very nearly cost him his life.

After that second op had been completed and the team returned to Portus Illuminatus, they had had another festive night at the Sidewinder—an Irish-style pub in a more questionable district of the Illuminati city. Robin's mouth curved in a wry smile as he thought of the place. He had gone there with his team after his first op as well; Francis, Ishmael, Judith, and all the others had officially 'inducted' him into the team. 'Inducted', while sounding innocent and harmless, actually meant being stripped down to his underwear in a private room, having a small barrel of lager dumped over his head, being hung upside-down from the ceiling with his hands bound behind his back, and then serving as target practice for the others. They pelted him with ice cubes, maraschino cherries, corks, and just about anything else they could get their hands on for most of the night.

At the end, they dealt him his coup-de-grâce. They brought out a small device which was shaped like a pistol, except it had a large container of ink attached to its top. A miniature tattoo needle. He had noticed that everyone in Special Operations had permanent symbols on their chests when he had watched them change in the locker room, but had never thought much of it at the time. He put the two and two together and quickly came up with four. Francis cut him down from the ceiling. Ishmael, Li, and Nathan held him down in a chair while Francis leaned over with the tattoo injector.

Robin could have easily overpowered them, but he would have had to severely injure them to do it. And so, he didn't offer very much resistance when Francis slid the needle into the flesh on the left side of his chest, right over his heart. Francis slowly and carefully manipulated the tattoo needle for the next ten minutes. He had obviously done this many times. When he was done, he switched it off and tossed it to Eugene, who gave a startled jump as it flew through the air towards him, but caught it anyway.

Robin had allowed himself a look at his chest. Right over his heart was a small, two inches in diameter, circle of black. In that circle was the unfinished pyramid and separate, eye-emblazoned triangle of the All-Seeing Eye, the Illuminati symbol. There were two swords crossed over the symbol and, beneath it, in as fancy a font as Francis could write with the needle, were the words _In Umbris Incursamus_, which was Latin for _In the Shadows We Strike_. Very appropriate, considering what they did and when they did it.

Now, over two weeks later, Robin was back where he had started at that time; flying through the middle of the night, gearing up in the pelican, and preparing to deal the Magistarium another blow.

Robin pulled his balaclava over his face and pulled his jacket's hood on over that. He then slipped on his black gloves and hefted his battle-rifle, ready as could be. He took a quick peek under his shirt at the Illuminati Spec Ops tattoo over his heart. It would be there until either he died or got it surgically removed. It had stopped hurting a while ago, though it could still twinge if he pressed it the wrong way.

This op was a larger one than the one in the Jethro Region. Colonel Robertson had said as much at the team briefing in Special Operations HQ outside of Portus Illuminatus. This time, they would be hitting a large munitions factory in the Andorra Region. Right on the eve of the Main Invasion of UNSC space, doing such would annoy the Magistarium more than it would usually.

Robin gave an inward sigh as he considered that. That's all it would really do; _annoy_ the Magistarium. The Illuminati would need to blow up a city with a HAVOK nuke or something along those lines to actually _hurt_ it. Though for now, thermite would have to do.

Jess tapped him on the shoulder and motioned for him to get up.

"We're coming up on our LZ!" the pilot called out from the cockpit. "ETA: 30 seconds!"

The factory which the Illuminati operatives were hitting was in a city, forcing them to abandon conventional landing procedures. The pilot landed on the flat roof of a building far enough away from the factory to avoid premature detection and unloaded the Spec Ops team there.

Francis and Judith both removed lengths of climbing rope from their backs, securing them to the rooftop and tossing them over the edge. The building was not tall—it was only five stories, the average height of most buildings in Magistarium cities—but it was high enough to discourage jumping.

"Get moving," Francis ordered the operatives.

One by one, the members of the Illuminati Spec Ops team grabbed hold of the rope and slid all the way down to the ground, forming up in the alleyway below once they reached it. Robin remembered his parents telling him stories of them easily falling several stories and landing without a scratch, but he took the rope anyway. Like most other pre-teens, he harbored no desire to jump off the roof of a tall building in the first place.

"Alright," Francis started to speak once everyone was gathered in the alley below. "This is the industrial sector of Sterling City. Right now, we are two klicks away from our objective; a large munitions factory, in a nutshell. The largest one in this area, in fact. We have to infiltrate and plant thermite explosives at key points around the facility. Ishmael, I'm sending those locations to your datapad right now. Eugene," the team leader turned to the sniper. "Eugene, there are several storage buildings around the perimeter of the target facility. Get moving and find yourself a good sniping spot. Nathan; you're on spotter duty, go with Eugene."

With that, the jumpy team sniper and the brown-haired seventeen-year-old youth operative got to their feet and moved out.

Francis straightened out a few more last-minute questions and facts with the remaining operatives before giving the order to move out.

The Illuminati Spec Ops team stole out of the alley and onto the road beyond. This road was a main road which ran straight from one end of the industrial sector to the other. There was a large train yard further up where the materials that the factories here turned out were shipped elsewhere on Nemesis III. It could have been one of the railways heading out of this city which Robin and his team had destroyed a week before.

The industrial sector was very different from the rest of the city. Instead of being densely-packed with residential buildings, businesses, or shops, it was filled with large factories, power plants, and lots of wire fence. Had it been daytime, the whole place would have appeared to be a solid tan-colored concrete expanse without any other hue. Seeing as it was dark, the operatives were not able to fully appreciate the sector's drab appearance.

Robin figured they had been walking down the road for fifteen, twenty minutes before Francis brought them to a halt. "Nearly there," the team leader murmured. They had encountered a single patrol of guardsmen on the road on the way and had to quickly take cover in the shadows, but other than that everything seemed quiet.

Robin thought that was odd; from what he had been hearing, the munitions factory they would be hitting was a pretty important set-up. Why would a place that was so important be guarded so lightly? An _infant_ who knew how to tiptoe could have made it this far.

Francis turned off the road and down a smaller pathway which ran in between two large warehouses. Behind the warehouses was a larger expanse of open ground between the road the operatives had been walking down and the adjacent one. In the center of that expanse was the munitions factory.

The factory was a huge establishment comprising of a large, black building—easily six stories high—with several distinct sections within the building. The assembly line and factory floor was clearly at the bottom levels while administration and logistics occupied the top floors. That must have left maintenance and grounds facilities for the basement. Smoke stacks sprouted up from the factory's roof, belching dark smoke into the air. Dim specks of fire could also be seen through the occasional window, telling the strike team that there were still people at work inside the facility.

None of the Illuminati had any flickers of hesitation when they saw that. War was messy; there was always collateral damage.

The presence of workers would also complicate the team's remaining undetected. Every worker there working the graveyard shift was another pair of eyes which could spot the Illuminati operatives and another mouth which could raise the alarm against them.

A plus to infiltrating the factory was that it had no wall or electrified fence protecting it. Not that the Spec Ops team would have had any trouble conquering an obstacle such as that, but still; no obstacle at all was much easier than a simple one.

Francis and Judith led the way up to the factory grounds. The operatives got off the road once they drew near to the building. Spotlights and bright halogen lights were shining off the roof of the factory and from guard stations set around the factory at regular intervals.

Robin squinted to see into those guard stations better and was surprised to find that they were mostly unoccupied; there was a guard once every four or five stations, but that was it. "Is this place's security _supposed_ to be this light?" the twelve-year-old spoke finally.

"Cut the chatter, rookie," Francis hissed from up front. "We're here to blow this place to Andromeda, not second-guess ourselves. We go in, plant the charges, then get the hell out fast enough, and we won't have to worry about a thing."

After Francis finished speaking, the team COM crackled to life and Eugene's stuttering voice issued forth. "T-Team Leader, th-this is Eugene. I've f-found a sniper spot, over. B-base s-security seems awfully l-light, don't you think?"

Francis sighed. "Copy, Eugene. Maintain radio silence for now, over," the scruffy team leader said before killing the channel.

The operatives crept forward over the grounds until they were flush against one of the vacant guard stations. Ishmael moved to step past.

"Wait!" Li whisper-shouted, grabbing Ishmael's sleeve and pulling him back. "Look!" he pointed to a point on the ground.

Robin could see it clearly, though the others had to squint to see. There were a series of gossamer-thin, faint red laser beams cutting through the air between the guard post and the adjacent one. They formed a fence of sorts, extending up to the tops of the guard stations. If a single laser was disrupted, it would most likely set off an alarm and the team's cover would be blown.

"Good save, Li," Francis grunted, all too aware at how close they had come to being compromised. He went prone and crawled his way under the bottom laser. No alarm went off, so he signaled for the others to follow.

Robin was the second-last to crawl through. He got back up to his feet and moved out of Blaze's way as the black-haired thirteen-year-old crawled through last.

"Alright," Francis addressed the team as they stole across the grounds towards the factory. "This place has no central power station; its power is supplied through external means. The only way to completely shut down everything would be an EMP, which we don't have. As such, we will be dividing into three teams, each team with a single high-yield thermite charge."

The operatives finally reached the factory and hunkered down against the broad section of wall which they were in front of.

There was movement off to the right as a pair of guards walked out from the factory and, chatting amongst themselves quietly, headed into one of the vacant guard posts. The lights flickered on inside the tiny cubicle and the guards could be seen settling back into their chairs.

Francis continued once the guards were safely tucked away. "Where was I? Right, three teams…we will divide into three teams of three, each with a single high-yield thermite charge. Each team will plant their charge at a key point within the assembly floor of the factory, then pull out and fall back to the rally point, which will be the place where we just bypassed the laser perimeter. Any questions?"

"Yeah," Drew, the fifteen-year-old, brown-haired youth operative who Robin had only gotten to know recently, spoke up. "How long are the timers on the detonators set for?"

Ishmael, the demolitions specialist answered that. "The place'll turn into a fireball when I press the button, not a second before."

Seeing no more questions, Francis nodded finally and got back to his feet. "The key points are all on the assembly floor; blowing the charges there will destroy the factory's supporting structure and cause it to cave in on itself, as well as directly destroying its means of production."

Judith, Blaze, and Li formed up in one team, took a thermite charge from Ishmael, and dispersed, heading for their point of entry. Jess, Ishmael, and Drew formed a second team and dispersed as well, leaving Francis and Sean to be Robin's teammates.

"I'm keeping you close to me," the team leader explained. "I'm also compensating," he added in a low voice, gesturing to Sean, who was off to the side, waiting impatiently. "You ready, Gingersnap?"

Sean's only response was a haughty sniff. The red-haired fifteen-year-old drew his silenced berretta and quickly loaded it. "Whenever _you_ people are ready."

Francis led Robin and Sean around the side of the factory and all the way to the back. Behind the factory was a large lot full of trucks and smaller storage buildings. Workers were walking back and forth between those buildings and the factory. Francis timed the workers' movements carefully and flattened himself against the factory wall, obscuring himself from the workers' line of view with one of the large concrete pylons which was supposed to prevent vehicles from crashing into the factory itself. The moment one of the service back doors was pushed open and a pair of workers with a trolley of crates bound for one of the storage buildings emerged, Francis swiftly slipped into the factory before the doors closed. Robin and Sean were hot on his heels.

The threesome proceeded in complete silence. Sean and Francis pulled their night-vision goggles from their faces, revealing their eyes, but nothing more. The hallways were brightly lit by what seemed to be halogen or neon. Whatever it was, it was bright, making the black-clad intruders stand out sharply. The team of three proceeded down the hall several steps.

"Through here," Francis pushed a door set in the side of the hallway open. The operatives got out of the hallway quickly before any more workers could discover them by accident.

The route to the actual assembly floor was short. Francis, following the directional signs posted on the walls at every junction, led his two subordinates through another hallway, across two more, and around a corner before coming to a stop before a set of double-doors. They appeared to be a fire-exit for the workers in the assembly floor.

While Francis got onto his COM to communicate with the other two teams, Robin craned his neck and snuck a peek through the doors to get a look at the assembly floor beyond. The floor itself took up two stories of the building. It was easily the size of a football field, filled with conveyor belts and assembly line machines. Slabs of raw tungsten and other metals entered the system at one end of the room, and by the time they reached the opposite end of the floor they were tank shells, artillery rounds, or ammunition. A network of catwalks formed an upper tier; no doubt for overseers and supervisors to observe the workers below and make sure everything was going smoothly.

Robin moved away from the door and leaned back against the wall. He found himself next to Sean, who was inspecting his berretta. Robin hesitated for a second, then decided to try to initiate conversation. "So…" the twelve-year-old murmured, "How long have you been doing this?"

Sean regarded the twelve-year-old like a human would an ant. "Much longer than _you_ have, that much is painfully obvious," the red-haired fifteen-year-old's reply was.

_O-kay_… Robin shrugged and stood back up, raising an eyebrow at Francis, who was just getting off his COM.

"Waiting for Ishmael's signal before moving in," the team leader explained. "Get ready."

Robin un-shouldered his battle-rifle and checked the ammo and sights. Satisfied with them, he held the weapon close to his chest and waited with Francis.

A minute ticked by.

Robin's heart began to beat faster and more loudly. Though he didn't get nervous anymore like he had in the past, the adrenaline rush before the climax of an op still stuck with him.

Another minute ticked by.

Francis's COM squawked and Ishmael's husky voice came through from the other end. "We're in position, waiting for your go-ahead."

Francis brought his COM to his mouth and murmured, "Move in."

With a deafening shout, the team leader kicked the door in and strode into the assembly floor. He aimed his assault rifle into the air and fired a quick burst up into the ceiling.

All the way down at the other end of the floor, Ishmael's team was doing the same. Judith, Blaze, and Li were the last to enter, breaking through a door close to the center of the giant room.

Pandemonium swept through the room as the startled workers fled from the gunshots, leaping over themselves to get to the nearest exits.

Francis hurried through the sea of bounding men and women to one of the key points where he would set his charge. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the high-yield thermite explosive, setting it down near its target; a large, thick metal support beam—one of five holding up the ceiling.

"Come on, hurry!" Sean exclaimed. Now that the team's cover was blown, it was only a matter of time before the Magisterial authorities in the city sent men to deal with them.

The assembly floor fell silent as most of the workers left the giant room, fleeing to safety in other parts of the factory or just simply outside.

Suddenly the COM crackled and Eugene's unmistakable tones came through, though there was static on the line and some of the words were garbled. "T-Team Leader thi----ugene! Y-you're about to----trouble! I have a visual of----all over-------out of-----they're jamming---------"

"Eugene?!" Francis spoke into his COM. "Eugene, you're breaking up; please repeat your last!"

Eugene seemed to try again, but only static and a few snippets of words were heard through the haze. Francis told him to repeat again, but this time there was no response. The COM was down.

"This isn't normal," Sean observed, audibly and visibly unnerved. "COMs don't go up in smoke just like that."

"I have a bad feeling about this…" Robin murmured, tightening his grip on his weapon.

Suddenly, there were a series of deafening crashes and explosions of sparks from the upper tier. Doorways all along one side of the upper tier of the assembly floor were blown open. Shouts came through accompanied by the sound of tramping boots. Groups of men clad entirely in black armor—which looked similar to the battledress worn by UNSC SWAT troops—stormed onto the catwalks, their faces obscured by opaque silver faceplates.

Paladins.

Before anyone could react, an order was shouted and the two-dozen or so black-armored men took aim with their weapons and opened fire, strafing the assembly floor with lead.

Robin dove for cover as a hail of bullets slammed into the conveyor belt which he had been standing next to. He covered his ears and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the firestorm to end.

The storm of weaponsfire never did end, but there was a slight lull after fifteen or twenty seconds. Robin cracked his eyes open and pushed himself up to his knees. He reached for his battle-rifle and picked it up, flicking off the safety. He then looked up.

His reflexes, greatly heightened by his augmentations which he had gotten from his parents, were what saved Robin Ambrose's life. He was lucky; others were not.

Francis lay facedown on the floor; his limbs all sprawled out, his assault rifle still in his hand, a smoking bullet hole in the side of his head. There were several more wounds all along his side, but even if he had survived them, the one in the head was absolute. The team leader was dead.

Sean was barely conscious. Several bullet wounds were clearly visible on his side, legs, and abdomen. He was bleeding out. Robin had no first-aid gear on him; Sean needed to get back to the pelican.

Robin grabbed Sean under his arms and hoisted the older boy onto his back piggy-back style. The red-haired youth operative was conscious enough to hold on, freeing up Robin's arms.

Robin took aim with his battle-rifle as he sprinted for the doors on the opposite side of the assembly floor. He centered his scope on a Paladin and squeezed off a quick three-round burst. The black-armored man didn't even scream; his head flopped back in a spray of red and his body fell to the floor.

Robin adjusted his aim and took out two more Paladins before he reached the doors. He briefly heard shouts from his surviving teammates just as he crashed through the doors.

Robin had no idea where he was going; he just kept the relative direction of the rally point in his mind as he blew through the labyrinth of hallways in that section of the factory. He crashed through one door after another, making his way towards an exit. Sean groaned and started to cough. Robin felt something wet spatter on the back of his neck; Sean was coughing up blood.

Robin swore quietly—something he rarely did; if Sean was coughing up blood, that meant he had internal bleeding. He needed help, and _fast_.

Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Robin spotted a door leading to the outside. He pounded for the exit and kicked it open, bounding outside as fast as he could possibly run.

The others must have had more direct routes to their exits, as Robin could see his teammates already outside, gunning it for the perimeter.

Robin's ears perked up as he heard the distant drone of a pelican engine. Well, as long as the pilot set the ship down close by, that was one less thing to worry about.

Not everyone had made it out of the building from the other two teams either; Robin did not see Judith or Drew among the survivors.

There were more shouts from all around as Robin kept on running. From the corner of his eye, he could see Magisterial Guardsmen and Paladins emerging from the darkness beyond the guard posts. As these new forces arrived, the surviving Paladins from inside the factory sprinted out of the exits, pursuing the fleeing Illuminati operatives.

The clatter of a heavy machinegun ripped through the night. The world around Robin seemed to explode with flying earth and dust as the heavy machinegun's fire tore into the ground all around him. Several more MGs opened up on the others as well. Robin saw Ishmael and Jess go down. Ishmael did not get back up, so Li had to lift the dark-skinned demolitions expert up before continuing. Jess, however—to Robin's relief—got back up to her feet, though she had to be helped along by Blaze.

Suddenly, Robin was propelled forward several feet, feeling as if he had been punched. Sean let out a pained cry, and then fell silent. Robin felt his hold slacken. He quickly grabbed the red-haired fifteen-year-old's wrist and checked for a pulse. There was none. The bullets must have been stray rounds; heavy MG rounds or bullets directly aimed at him would have gone right through Sean's body and into his own.

Having no time to give a eulogy, Robin simply let go of Sean's corpse and let it fall to the ground, abandoning it. It would only slow him down.

Robin blew past the guard posts in time to see the Illuminati pelican landing several hundred yards ahead and to the left, right near the other survivors of the Spec Ops team. The twelve-year-old veered to the left and saw Li carrying Ishmael into the pelican. Nathan leaped out of the ship and helped Blaze get Jess in as well, leaving Robin as the only one left on the ground.

Several sharp _**cracks**_ came out of the hold of the dropship; Eugene and his sniper rifle's doing. Robin was sure there were now several newly-deceased Magisterial Guardsmen back at the factory.

As Robin was approaching the pelican, a blazing rocket came out of nowhere, fired from somewhere behind. It just barely missed the ship; clipping a wing instead of full-on _hitting_ it.

The pelican quickly rose into the air, getting the hell _away_ from where the rocket had come from. While that saved the ship's life, it also moved it further away from Robin.

The dropship was able to land down near the main road where the Spec Ops team had been walking down beforehand.

Several more hidden heavy machinegun emplacements blazed to life off from the sides, clinking off the pelican's hull and slicing through the air all around Robin. The twelve-year-old kept on running towards his destination.

Paladins and Guardsmen streamed out of the buildings off to the side, charging Robin and the ship from both sides. Weaponsfire was now coming from three sides.

Jess, blood dripping down her leg, was leaning in the opening of the pelican's hold, her mouth moving, screaming. Blaze was right next to her, doing likewise, but Robin could not hear their words. His vision contorted, blanking out everything else except for the pelican's open ramp and the distance to it.

The open hold of the pelican was beckoning to him, drawing nearer and nearer…

Robin felt the bullet slam into the back of his shoulder. It didn't go completely through, but it definitely damaged his shoulder blade. The twelve-year-old was spun around, just in time to stop another bullet in the abdomen.

Feeling as if he had just been brutally kneed in the stomach, Robin was thrown backward several feet, slamming down into the ground and hitting his head and shoulder. White-hot agony exploded from his shoulder wound as it hit the ground, followed quickly by another deluge of pain from his abdomen. The stomach was one of the most painful places on the human body to be shot, along with the kneecap, and Robin was learning that the extremely hard way.

Robin lay on the ground, his heartbeat reverberating in his ears. He was faintly aware of someone screaming for a few seconds before realizing that it was his own voice.

The star-studded sky above him seemed to be spinning and the earth shaking under him. He regained enough awareness to see that he was in fact moving—being dragged, in fact—towards the pelican, which was beginning to rise up into the air. After a minute, the star-studded sky changed to a red-hued titanium ceiling. He was in the pelican. Not safe, but much safer than he had been lying out in the open.

More shouts mingled with his own screams, shouts from different voices, different people.

The floor rocked beneath Robin as the pelican took off and soared into the air, flying away from the factory. Rockets and heavy weaponsfire was streaking up from the factory and the main road near it.

Robin managed a frown as he got a brief glimpse of that. If Magisterial forces were on the road as well, they must have surrounded the entire factory beforehand—well before the Illuminati strike team arrived—and went into hiding, waiting for their quarry. A thought pierced the chaotic haze which was Robin's mind. If that were the case, then…

"They were waiting for us!" the shrill voice of Li—the Asian technical specialist of the strike team—exclaimed in a loud enough tone for Robin to hear over his own screams. "They were fucking _waiting_ for us! They _knew_ we were coming!"

There were several answering shouts and Li fell silent.

Faces flashed by before Robin's own. The twelve-year-old's eyes refocused to see Jess's delicate features. They would have looked almost angelic had it not been for the red light which illuminated the hold. The thirteen-year-old youth operative had pulled off her balaclava, letting her blond hair fall down to her shoulders. She leaned over Robin and produced a white canister with a red cross painted across it. She inserted the tip of the nozzle into Robin's stomach wound.

The twelve-year-old's cries intensified as his wounds were disturbed and the bio-foam sprayed into them. A pair of pale arms—Blaze's arms—pressed his shoulders to the floor, preventing him from convulsing and injuring himself even more.

The pain in his stomach was combined with the burning sensation of the bio-foam as it began to do its work.

"Jesus, someone get me an anesthetic!" Robin was dimly aware of Jess shouting as he started to struggle. Someone—probably Nathan—replied that there _were_ no anesthetics on board. More shouts and yells followed—argumentative exclamations. The pelican banked to a side, causing Blaze to accidentally lean on Robin's shoulder, temporarily banging the second bullet wound onto the metal floor.

The resulting lance of pain cut straight into Robin's brain, jarring him to the very core.

The argument over the anesthetic ceased. Robin opened his eyes one last time to see Blaze stand up and kneel back down behind him. The black-haired thirteen-year-old gently lifted Robin's head off the ground and, after giving a sincere apology, delivered a quick blow to the back of his head.

The last thing Robin felt was a sharp pain at the base of his skull, then the pain was finally, mercifully, gone.


	42. Chapter 41: Revelations

Chapter Forty-One: Revelations

**0855 Hours, October 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Weeks Later)  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys City, Tethys Region, Terra Firma**

Alex Ambrose had thoroughly checked the area for any suspicious figures before approaching the café on the 1600th block on Dalchester Street, a smaller road in the residential area of northern Tethys. The café was situated at the intersection of 49th and Dalchester, drawing in customers from both streets to come in and have a meal.

Based on sheer observation of the individuals eating heartily inside the joint, Alex and Sam could only assume that its food was halfway competent.

"You're sure this is the place?" Sam Ambrose asked, coming up beside her husband. She had changed out of her old clothes which she had had since their arrival on Nemesis III. She was now dressed in a simple bright green cap-sleeve shirt and a pair of darker-toned jeans. Alex, despite his permanent grim mood which he had been stuck in ever since his son's death, could not help but acknowledge his wife's true inner and outer beauty, even in the rain of the Tethys Region.

A faint smile was torn out of the blue-eyed Spartan's otherwise expressionless face. "Yeah," Alex said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a crumpled piece of yellowed paper and unfolded it. On it was a written message, which had been given to them by a messenger of the Illuminati—the secretive, mysterious force of separatists on Nemesis III and the only significant manifestation of opposition against the Magistarium.

Alex showed Sam the part of the written message which gave the location of the café on Dalchester Street, right where they were standing now. "Yep, it's definitely _here_," he said, tucking the message back into his pocket. The message had also instructed Alex and Sam not to go to the meeting place until signaled to do so. They had waited impatiently for an entire month for such a signal. In that month they had done a few more odd-jobs for Percival Blackmoore; nothing anywhere near the scale of assassinating a Magisterial Governor, though; just small things that helped pass the time.

Then, yesterday, Sam had woken up to find another message which had been slipped under the front entrance door of the abandoned pawnshop in which they had made their abode, telling them to be at the meeting place in the café the next day. Twenty-four hours later, Alex and Sam found themselves on the other side of the metropolis, hoping to meet these mysterious individuals who had contacted them.

"Well, this 'Gerald' character said nine o' clock sharp, so we have a few minutes. Might as well grab a table," Sam suggested. She slid her hand into her husband's and dragged him inside, pushing open the door and sitting down at a table tucked away next to one of the street windows.

A heavily bearded, almost grungy waiter, wearing an off-white apron, detached himself from the throng of customers and staff members to attend to the new arrivals. "Howdy-doody," he said, speaking in an almost lazy drawl. "What kin I get fer y'all?"

"Nothing, thank you," Sam quickly answered before Alex had the chance to say something insulting directed at his obnoxious accent. "We're here to meet someone."

"Aight, that ain't nuthin' new; we gets folks who does stuff like that in 'ere all the time," the waiter said as he backed away and moved to another table.

"Was that in English?" Alex muttered after the redneck waiter left.

Sam smirked as she checked her watch. "Nine o' clock," she called out the time, putting down her arm and glancing at the door. "Should be here anytime, now."

Even as Sam spoke, the door to the café opened and two new men walked in, taking off their hats and scanning the room for people they were looking for. The redneck waiter scurried over to them and conversed with them briefly, then broke off and headed into the backroom. The two men turned and moved directly towards the table the Ambroses were sitting at.

With a start, Sam and Alex recognized one of the men as the old, grizzled homeless man who they had met on their first day living in Tethys, and who had also given them the message from the Illuminati. The other man, however, they did not recognize. He was a shorter man who appeared to be in his fifties. He was balding with wispy gray hair, slightly overweight, and a large, short nose which balanced a pair of spectacles. He looked more like a kindly grandfather rather than a deadly Illuminati agent, but looks were, and always would be, deceiving.

The two men spotted Alex and Sam and made their way over through the throng, sitting down in the other two seats opposite the Spartans. They relaxed and shed their outer coats, leaning on the table with their elbows and making themselves comfortable.

For a second no one spoke. The two Illuminati men and the two Spartans stared at each other across the table, their questions for each other apparent, but unvoiced. It was the unfamiliar Illuminati man who finally broke the silence. "Thank you for coming," the pudgy man said. "I must apologize for the long wait; getting out of the Meillan Region completely undetected is not as easy as it used to be."

"Who are you and what do you want?" Alex got right to the point. He had waited a long time and did not intend to prolong that wait any further.

The unknown man must have sensed this, for he answered right away. "You can call me Gerald. I am the Watchman of the Meillan Region."

"The what?" Sam cocked an eyebrow in confusion.

"The _Watchman_ of the Meillan Region," the unknown man, Gerald, repeated himself. "The Illuminati have a single specialist in every region of Nemesis III. That specialist integrates himself into the society of that region and is responsible for reporting intel and reconnaissance from that region at all times, as well as also helping Illuminati forces who may have an op in their region. Each region has one such specialist; I am the one assigned to the Meillan Region. And this," Gerald gestured to the old hobo, who gave the Ambroses a quick smile and wave, "This is Lyell Banks, the Watchman of the Tethys Region."

"We've met already," the old, homeless man, Lyell, quipped.

"How did you know we really are who we are?" Sam asked next.

"I've seen pictures," Gerald's answer was. "I've seen your pretty faces on footage from the attack on Farseer Epsilon Outpost two months ago as well as recon shots taken for me by Lyell here. Besides…" he turned to Alex, "your son shares your eyes; that shade of blue is hard to mistake."

A dagger of ice crept into Alex's heart at the mention of his son. "What business do you have mentioning my son? He is _dead_ because of the Goddamned Magistarium, because of _all_ you people. I am going to hurt them back. To do that, I need the help of the Illuminati, and to do that I need to be taken to your city, wherever it is. Preferably _now_. So, let's talk business."

Gerald let out a weary sigh and leaned back into his chair, steepling his fingers and resting his chin on them. "Alexander, Samantha…there's no way to really…uh…well…" the Watchman stammered for a minute, trying to shape the words in his mouth before finally giving up and coming right out and saying, "Your son is alive."

Had Alex or Sam been eating or drinking at that moment, whatever was in their mouths would have gone halfway across the room. As it was, neither Spartan said anything, but their eyes easily doubled in size and their jaws nearly scraped the floor.

Gerald, seeing that they were incapable of speech for the moment, decided to continue. "I met your son around a month and a half ago. He had been imprisoned in that Cruciamentum with a youth operative of ours. I'm still looking into just exactly _how_ the place exploded; residual evidence points to high-yield thermite charges. The only people with access to such explosives are my own and Shade Branch…but I digress. The explosion did not kill your son; it was that same explosion which allowed him to escape."

"H-How… How did he look?" Alex managed to say, his churning emotions making it difficult to speak. He was feeling very conflicted. He had grown accustomed to, and had even _embraced_, his hatred. Now that hatred on which he had built himself for the past two months was suddenly meaningless. He had sunk into a permanent grim mood with an unshakable sense of purpose ever since that night in Mire City; to destroy the Magistarium and kill the ones who were responsible for killing his son. If Robin were actually _alive_…

There were tears in Sam's eyes when Alex looked at her. He put his hands to his eyes and they came away wet as well. He quickly wiped the tears away; crying in a public place would not be the best idea.

"Well, he was disheveled, grimy, and he looked like he had been through hell," Gerald recounted, not bothering to sugarcoat anything for the Ambroses. "He was pretty shy, but he seemed in perfect mental condition. When you see him again, he should still be the same Robin Ambrose you always knew."

Alex, in spite of himself, let a quiet sob slip out of his throat. He quickly suppressed the rest, forcing them down into his stomach.

Lyell, the old homeless man, rose out of his chair abruptly and began to slide into his coat. "I apologize; I just remembered that my services are needed elsewhere in a few minutes. Being a Watchman in the main region of the planet means a _lot_ of work. Until we meet again."

Gerald gave his fellow Watchman a quick embrace before sitting back down. He seemed more relieved, which struck Sam and Alex as odd.

"Lyell and I go a long way back," Gerald explained. "It's one of the reasons why I chose to meet with you _here_, in the Tethys Region; I know that I can trust him."

"Trust him?" Alex echoed. "You sound like someone straight out of one of those conspiracy films."

"Your son is in Portus Illuminatus," Gerald continued, ignoring Alex's comment. "Portus Illuminatus is our city, hidden away in the Terra Flammae subcontinent."

"Take us there," Sam nearly yelled. As it was, she could barely keep herself in her chair. "Now."

Gerald held up a hand, quelling the red-haired Spartan. "Soon, I promise. First, you have to hear me out. Your son is in _danger_."

"Well no shit, Sherlock," Alex rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't exactly call this place a haven."

"No, you don't understand," Gerald said patiently. "Of course he was not safe _here_, but there is no safer place on the planet than Portus Illuminatus. Until now… What you need to first understand is that I am…well…I have gone somewhat rogue."

Alex and Sam leaned forward, their eyebrows creeping up as they grew suddenly interested in what the Watchman had to say.

"I have been under watch for the past couple of weeks," Gerald explained. "That's why I could not meet with you until now. I said it was because of transportation difficulties and also because Lyell was here; now I can speak freely. Even so, the Illuminatus—our leader—has probably already learned of my presence here. Eluding the Magistarium is difficult, but eluding my own people is impossible. As such, we must hurry. Three weeks ago, I accidentally hacked into the Illuminatus's personal files back in Portus Illuminatus and I discovered things…plans the Magistarium has for your son. I had heard rumors and speculations before, but…your son is in danger. When he was wounded two weeks ago, I knew I couldn't just sit back and watch anymore. We must act now."

"Wait, back up a second," Alex interrupted. "What do you mean 'he was wounded'?"

"You bastards have our son _fighting_ to do your dirty work?!" Sam exclaimed.

Gerald released a pained sigh. "I had no idea what the Illuminati were going to do with Robin once we got him safely to Portus Illuminatus. My job was to get him _out_ of the Meillan Region. After that, I had absolutely no say or control over what they did with him. You have to understand that we could not simply send him back to his and your home; the Magistarium would simply snap him back up again if we did that, and then we'd _all_ be up Shit Creek without a paddle, or even a canoe for that matter. He had to be kept safe. They must have thought his…" Gerald searched for the right word, "…talents…were worth taking advantage of, and so they inducted him into their Special Operations force."

Alex's face turned a deep shade of red. He rose from his chair and grabbed Gerald by the collar, jerking the Watchman forward. "You-"

That was all Alex managed to say. He was interrupted right then by a sharp _**crack**_, quickly accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.

The customers in the café instantly exploded in panic in reaction to the shot, running this way and that, screaming and climbing over each other to escape the place where the commotion had started.

"Sniper!" Alex shouted, throwing himself and Gerald sideways below the table. "Bastard's got good aim, whoever he is!"

Gerald blanched white briefly when he saw the neat bullet hole drilled through the back of his chair. Had he still been sitting there, it would have gone through his skull. "Well I never thought I'd _thank_ someone for manhandling me," the Watchman murmured. "But I'll make an exception here…"

"How could the Magistarium possibly know who we are?!" Sam exclaimed, crawled over to hunker down beside them. "It's not as if-"

"That wasn't a Magistarium sniper," Gerald murmured, his voice filled with disbelief and shock. "It was an _Illuminati_ agent… I can tell by the sound the sniper rifle made; Magistarium-issue ones sound different…"

"Let me get this straight; your own people are trying to _kill_ you now?!" Alex nearly shouted, about ready to go out of his mind in confusion. Too much was happening at once; first the revelation about his son being alive, then learning that he was hurt again, now _this_.

"Come on, we cannot stay here!" Gerald grabbed Sam by her arm and led the Ambroses through the restaurant and into the kitchens behind the counter. They threaded their way through the chefs and the rest of the kitchen staff, who were just beginning to wise up to what had just happened in the main room outside.

Gerald led the two Spartans out a service entrance and into a tinted black hovercar parked in the alley outside. "Get in," the Watchman hissed. Alex and Sam climbed into the back seats while Gerald got into the driver's seat. The Watchman shut his door and started the engine. The hovercar jolted briefly as its anti-gravity nodes set into its underbelly flared to life, suspending the car two or three feet into the air. Gerald hit the power and the propulsion thrusters flared to life as well, driving the car out of the alley and onto the main street.

"You mind explaining what the hell just happened there!?" Alex got right back down to brass tacks as soon as they were safely far away from the café.

"If I knew, I'd tell you…" Gerald murmured. "That sniper was Illuminati…" the Watchman sounded as if he were in shock. All things considered, he probably was. "My own people tried to _kill_ me…_why_ would they-"

"You said my son was in danger," Sam interrupted, bringing the conversation back on-topic.

Gerald was brought out of his semi-shellshock enough to answer. "The Magistarium and the Tirque have plans for your son; plans which the Illuminatus managed to discover and get a hold of."

"What plans?" Alex pressed the Watchman for answers. "What do they want with Robin?"

"Your son is very, _very_ special," Gerald explained. He kept a steady eye on the road and turned at the next intersection. "He possesses a brain mutation similar to yours. It is different, however; both of your mutations sort of…'combined' is not the right word, but it is the closest. They 'combined' when your son was still in his embryo stages. If properly stimulated or if put in the right conditions, he can do many things that men with normal brains cannot."

"Like what?" Alex didn't quite follow.

Gerald shrugged. "I have no idea; I just know that it is crucial for their plans."

"And that's why the Magistarium wanted him so badly?" Sam spoke up. "Because he's one of a kind?"

"Exactly," Gerald nodded. He turned the hovercar down another road. Alex noticed that they were drawing near to the abandoned pawnshop where he and his wife had been living. "The Magistarium and the Tirque possess a deadly weapon, one which only your son can fully use."

"What is this weapon?" Alex asked.

Gerald shrugged. "I do not know. I do know that it is large and it is powerful. It sounds like it is a type of super-ship, but I do not know why they would need your son to control it if that were the case…I don't know. Whatever it is, though, using it would…damage your son. It wouldn't kill him, but somehow it would irrevocably damage him. Whatever it is, we cannot allow him to be forced to control this weapon."

"Why would your own people try to kill you to prevent you from telling us that?" Sam wondered aloud.

"I've been around for a long time, and I think I've pretty much seen it all," Gerald sighed. "But this…I still can't get over the whole thing…here's your stop," the Watchman pulled the hovercar over onto the sidewalk, right In front of the Ambrose's abandoned pawnshop. "Pack up and bring everything with you; you won't be returning."

Alex and Sam clambered out of the car and ducked into the pawnshop. They climbed up the stairs and headed into their room on the second floor.

Alex set about packing up his sniper rifle while Sam set all of their clothes into a backpack. They worked in a silence at first, their emotions simmering just beneath their exteriors.

"I still can't believe he's alive…" Sam murmured as she continued to work. Her emotions broke through her conditioned outer shell and were clearly visible on her face again for a few seconds. She wiped her pine-green eyes and zipped up the backpack.

Alex gathered her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her forehead, stroking her hair out of her eyes. "Neither can I, Sam…neither can I…" a wide grin split his face and he let his wife go, bending down and picking up the backpack, shouldering it.

"Well, hey," Sam mused, seeing her husband smile. "Never thought I'd see _that_ come out ever again."

"Having your son come back from the dead _can_ do strange things," Alex agreed. "Including making angry, bitter, hate-filled Spartans feel happiness again…"

The blue-eyed Spartan now felt a buzz throughout his mentality. It had been there ever since Gerald had told them of their son's fate, but now it was much more pronounced. Before, Alex had been existing on the 'short-term'; basing all his life on a short-term goal. Simply focusing all of his energies on killing the next target was an extremely unhealthy way to live; it prevented him from seeing the bigger picture and it also did his emotions absolutely no good. Learning that his son was actually _alive_ had been enough of a shock to his mind to bring him back to his senses.

He felt like sobbing with joy—and he would have, too, except there was still too much to do and so little time in which he needed to do it. Now that he knew Robin was alive, he would have to find him. He would then have to find a way to get him back home, and to do that he would have to get him away from the Illuminati.

Alex grabbed the duffel bag which he kept his sniper rifle packed in and headed for the door. "Come on," he said, draping an arm over his wife's shoulders and steering her out of the room and down the stairs.

The Ambroses made their way through the ground floor of the abandoned pawnshop and, after bidding it farewell, walked out the entrance for the last time.

Gerald was still waiting in the black hovercar. His distinct figure could be seen through the tinted windows, fidgeting nervously in the front seat, casting uneasy glances all over the roads.

Alex and Sam climbed back into the back seat and shut the doors. "Home, James," Alex ordered.

"Come again?" Gerald cocked an eyebrow as he started the engine.

"It's a…never mind…" Alex shrugged, settling back into his seat.

The hovercar joined the stream of traffic, moving through the giant metropolis of Tethys City, heading for the countryside where Gerald claimed to have a ship stowed away for the trip into Terra Flammae.

"So, why are you in such a rush?" Sam broke the silence as Gerald turned off the highway an hour or two later, moving off onto a small, country road which wound into the distance through the largely-unpopulated countryside outside of the city. "I mean, I know you were just shot at by your own people for God only knows what, but even before that, you were in a big rush to contact us. What is-"

Gerald's gaze flicked over to the rearview mirror, his face nearly agape. "You don't know?!" he nearly shouted. He calmed down quickly, though, after he thought the whole thing through. "Well, you _have_ been in quasi-isolation for the past few weeks—smart, considering your faces have been circulating throughout the Magistarium's systems ever since your escapades at Farseer Epsilon and the Magisterial Archives building…and that explains why you wouldn't-"

"Gerald!" Sam snapped, interrupting the Watchman and bringing him back on topic. The Watchman's mouth had loosened quite a bit since he had been shot at; he obviously was not yet completely over the shock and confusion as to why his own people were trying to kill him. His mentality had been taken off the issue by the task of getting Sam and Alex to his ship, but now that he was nearly finished that objective, his mind now had time to fully examine what had transpired.

Gerald locked eyes with his passengers and spoke five of the worst words Alex and Sam would ever have to hear. Hearing of something such as the death of a close friend would have been worse, but this came pretty damn close. "The main invasion begins tomorrow."


	43. Chapter 42: With Friends like These

Chapter Forty-Two: With Friends like These…

**1747 Hours, October 31, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Portus Illuminatus, Terra Flammae**

Colonel Lionel Robertson was feeling off today. It's not as if it were a bad day today; the weather in Terra Flammae—apart from the occasional acid rain—remained warm and breezy all year-round. After all, it was difficult to have cold weather in a city on a mountain surrounded by active volcanoes and rivers of lava.

Even so, Robertson was still feeling off. It was a sensation in his gut which he could not explain. Before he had risen to the position of commander of Illuminati Special Operations, Robertson had been a field operative himself. He had fought and survived for years in Magistarium lands and cities. All of that experience had given him almost a sixth sense for danger. Most soldiers who had survived a war had a similar ability.

Robertson did not get that sense often. When he did, sometimes it was just nothing—a false alarm. But sometimes, when he had gotten that feeling in the field, sometimes it had saved his life and the lives of his comrades.

This, however, was the first time he had ever gotten that sense of unease at home.

_What could possibly happen _here?_ This is easily the safest place on the entire planet; why do I feel this way?_

Robertson shrugged to himself. For the life of him, he did not know.

The colonel stared into the steaming mug of coffee on his desk. He had been cooped up in his private office in the Parthenon—the central governmental building of the Illuminati located in the center of Portus Illuminatus—since early in the morning, reading through and filing after-action reports from an op in some distant region across the ocean in Terra Occasa.

Robertson was still in a foul mood. The operation in the Andorra Region, led by Captain Francis Wright, one of his best team leaders, had been botched. No, _botched_ was a supreme understatement; there was no word in the English language to describe how fubar that operation had gotten.

Captain Wright—Robertson had always simply called him 'Francis'—was now dead, along with another operative named Judith Dorsey and two of his youth operatives. _Dead_. Four people, gone in the blink of an eye. This rarely happened; sometimes an operative or two would be lost every so often, but losing _four_ people on the same mission was…

Of the seven survivors, only four were unharmed, and half of that number was the two-man sniper team—far removed from the actual fighting which took place in the target factory. Jess Flanagan, another one of Robertson's youth operatives, had been grazed in the leg. Ishmael Mgumbe, the team's demolitions expert, was still in a coma with grenade wounds, though doctors expected him to come out of it soon. That left Robin Ambrose. The blue-eyed twelve-year-old boy who would play such an important part in the Illuminati's soon-to-occur attack on the Magistarium had been shot twice.

According to the survivors, Paladins and Guardsmen had been present at the factory, and they had ambushed them.

Robertson's hand slammed down onto his desk for the umpteenth time, his fingers curling into an angry fist. The Magistarium had been _waiting_ for the Spec Ops team. They had _known_ that the Illuminati would strike there; that could only mean one thing; that the Illuminati had a traitor in their midst.

But who?

There was a knock at the door. Robertson grumbled to himself; he was _not_ in the mood for company. However, he could not simply ignore the person outside, so he gruffly said, "What do you want?"

The door opened and the Illuminatus walked in. The leader of the Illuminati was clad in his usual black coat and black trousers, complete with the emotionless silver mask which obscured his face. The mask had been worn by all the Illuminatus before him as well; it was worn so that the identity of the Illuminatus was never known to the public.

Robertson had snapped out of his chair so fast that it actually flew back and hit the wall behind him. "Sir! I'm sorry; I didn't know you were-"

The Illuminatus held up a hand quelling the Colonel's apologies. "If I were in your shoes, I would not be in any better a mood than you are in now; think nothing of it. I just came to check up on your progress in discovering the identity of the one who tipped off the Magistarium of our plans to attack the Andorra Region."

Robertson let out another weary sigh and sank back into his chair. "We're no closer to finding out who it is today than we were last week. Counterintelligence can drive a man to drink; God knows I've been tempted lately to spend a few nights in the Sidewinder to drown my sorrows."

The Illuminatus gave a nod. "Keep on trying. Oh, and there is a message for you in the control room, for your eyes only; Special Ops internal affairs. Get down there when you have a free moment and clear that up, and let me know if it is anything serious. Get some sleep when you're finished; it's been a long day."

Robertson saluted the Illuminati leader as the masked man turned and left the room, closing the door behind himself. The Special Operations commander filed away the last few sheaves of paperwork before finally stretching and standing up, deciding to call it a night.

The Colonel walked out of his office, which was situated on the ground floor of the Parthenon. The communications center was much deeper inside the complex, taking a five-minute walk to get to the place.

When Robertson arrived at the communications center, most of the operators were gone; only a small night crew of eight men was still present, monitoring the equipment. One of them noticed Colonel Robertson and hurried over, handing him a small piece of paper.

"Sir, this telegram came in over the wireless ten minutes ago," the operator said after he delivered the message. He then snapped a quick salute, then turned on his heel and returned to his work.

Robertson cocked an eyebrow as he regarded the piece of paper. Technology being what it was in this era, telegrams were increasingly rare. That he would get one like this must mean something unusual. The Special Operations commander unfolded the piece of paper and read the message.

The message itself was encrypted in one of the codes Spec Ops rarely ever used. In fact, this particular encryption was known only to Colonel Robertson and to a select few Watchmen. Robertson squinted at the message and read it. His other eyebrow slid up his forehead as he finished deciphering the message. It read: _Code Ruby-Omega-Foxtrot_, followed by a single word, _Nox_.

"Something wrong, sir?" one of the operators asked, noticing Robertson's expression.

Colonel Robertson quickly assumed a static expression and shrugged. "The one who will be the judge of that is me. This is highly-classified Spec Ops business; I never got this message. Clear?"

"Crystal, sir," the operators in the room chorused as Robertson turned and left.

Colonel Robertson walked through the labyrinth of corridors under the Parthenon and ascended through the levels until he found himself at the main entrance. Two members of the House Guard—the newly-formed elite unit of men handpicked by the Illuminatus to serve as his guard—stood watch outside. They didn't even twitch as he walked out. Robertson told them to alert the Illuminatus of his departure and one of them gave a crisp nod.

Robertson did not harbor any good feelings towards the House Guard. To be honest, they unnerved him a little bit. _Why does the Illuminatus need personal guards in the middle of the safest place on Nemesis III? If anyone wanted to assassinate him, it would have been done long ago._

The Colonel brushed those thoughts from his head as he climbed into his personal warthog, powering up the near-silent engine and driving out of the sun-dappled green Media Park, the ground in which the Parthenon stood. His vehicle was one of the scant handful in the city of Portus Illuminatus; all of the other vehicles the Illuminati possessed were outside of the city with the Illuminati para-military, which was rapidly mobilizing.

That was another cause for stress; the Magistarium's main invasion of UNSC space—directed at some important world whose name Robertson could not recall—began in just a few hours. Once the main army of the Magistarium on Nemesis III departed for UNSC space, the Illuminati military would strike.

The Magistarium had sorely underestimated the Illuminati's strength for decades; believing them to be only a small, ragtag—albeit organized—group of freedom fighters. They did not know that the Illuminati numbered over eighty thousand, their ranks swelled over the last two centuries by new generations and Magisterial defectors. They did not know that the Illuminati harbored a proper military. When the Illuminati soldiers finally marched down the streets of Tethys City, weakened by the absence of most of the Magisterial Army, the Magistarium would finally realize—too late—just how wrong they had been.

The military numbered nearly twenty thousand, an oversized division. At this moment, they were all outside of Portus Illuminatus, working in tandem with the pelican dropships which would be transporting them out of Terra Flammae.

Robertson shook his head and dragged himself away from those thoughts, focusing back on the task at hand. _Nox_ was Latin for 'night', and it was also the COM callsign of Gerald, the Watchman of the Meillan Region. _Code Ruby-Omega-Foxtrot_ meant he needed to communicate with Robertson immediately and alone. _Completely_ alone; not even the Illuminatus should be aware of a Code Ruby-Omega-Foxtrot. Robertson had never used that code before, nor had he ever received it during his time as Spec Ops commander, so whatever Gerald had to say, it must have been serious.

Colonel Robertson arrived at his home twenty-five minutes later; he lived in a small ranch house situated in the outskirts of the city. The white stone it was made out of was rendered a rich gold by light of the sun sinking into the west. The Colonel pulled into his garage and killed the engine. He did not go into his house, however; instead he walked back outside, closing the garage door behind him, and headed around the side of his home. In the backyard was a small, beaten-down wooden shed. Robertson walked up to that and pushed open the door, ducking inside.

The shed was empty, save for a small push-lawnmower. Robertson stepped around the lawnmower and crouched down in the far corner of the shed. He pressed down on one of the floorboards and popped it up. He then gazed into the newly-created hole in the floor, blinking for a split-second as the green lasers snapped out of the hole and into his eyes, reading his retinas. Once the sensors confirmed that Colonel Robertson was indeed Colonel Robertson, there was a quiet hiss as a section of floor slid away, revealing a dark shaft with a ladder set into one side.

Robertson climbed down into the shaft, heading down the ladder. The floor closed over him. Once it did, the shaft was lit up by tubes of neon gas which extended down to the bottom of the shaft, twenty feet below. Robertson reached the bottom of the shaft, which was actually a small, square room with stone walls. It had taken Robertson ages to build this place, but he had found many uses for it.

There was a private COM system set down on a table in the corner of the room, and it was there where Robertson sat down. He powered up the system, putting on a set of headphones which were connected to the COM and pulling over an almost-ancient telegraph-like apparatus which was also connected to the COM.

Robertson turned his COM to the highly-secret, basically non-existent COM channel which he instructed the Watchmen to use when they needed to contact him. He pulled the speaking mike over to his lips and uttered the challenge.

After a short while, a series of short and long beeps interspersed with each other came over the air. Robertson's frown deepened. It was definitely Gerald; the reply included the answer to the challenge, as well as Gerald's callsign, which only he could know. It also requested non-verbal communication.

Robertson pulled over his telegraph apparatus and switched it on. It was a simple piece of equipment; it had a system for getting onto certain channels, but Robertson ignored that because it was already connected to the COM, and it also had a small, round touchpad on which the user could tap out his messages.

Morse code was ancient, at least six hundred years old, maybe older. Gerald was one of the few people Robertson knew of who knew how to use it. Gerald knew that Robertson knew Morse code as well, and he was obviously taking advantage of that. Even if this channel was somehow not secure, no one would be able to decipher the seemingly chaotic jumble of short beeps and longer ones.

_Something _really_ has Gerald spooked_… Robertson thought to himself.

Robertson tapped out his acknowledgment, and told Gerald to proceed. He listened to Gerald's answering message and frowned, thinking he must have heard it wrong. He asked Gerald to repeat his last transmission, and the Watchman did.

**NEARLY KILLED BY SNIPER TODAY [BREAK] ASSASSIN WAS ILLUMINATI [BREAK] DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THIS? [STOP]**

Robertson scratched his head, thoughts beginning to whiz through his mind. There was no way he had misunderstood the message; it was clear. He sent his reply; **NO [BREAK] PLEASE CLARIFY [STOP]**

Robertson listened to Gerald's response. According to the Watchman, he had accidentally hacked into the Illuminatus's personal files during his stay in Portus Illuminatus. He had discovered many things about the Magistarium's plans for Robin Ambrose, as well as intel that the Magistarium also had plans to retrieve him by the Main Invasion, which would be happening in a few hours. Gerald had made contact with Robin's parents, two individuals named Alexander and Samantha Ambrose. Robertson grunted in surprise when he learned that they were on the planet. Gerald then said that, while he was in the middle of meeting with the Ambroses, he was nearly killed by a sniper. He was certain that the sniper was Illuminati.

Impossible as it may have seemed, Robertson had known Gerald for too long to take his words lightly. The Watchman hadn't operated successfully out of the Meillan Region for over twenty years because he was an incompetent.

But that begged the question: _why_ would the Illuminati try to kill the Watchman? Robertson knew for a fact that whoever tried to kill Gerald was not from Special Operations; all of his personnel were accounted for. The Colonel informed Gerald of this fact in his reply.

Gerald then told Robertson that he would be arriving in the city tomorrow with the Ambroses. He then told Robertson something disturbing; if the sniper had not been from Spec Ops, the only other place an assassin with that sort of talent would be from the House Guard.

Robertson finished up his session with Gerald, killing the channel and turning off the COM. He grabbed hold of the ladder and climbed back up into the shaft, emerging into the shed in his backyard. He closed up shop, making sure everything was secure, before walking back outside.

Robertson headed around to the front door of his home and walked inside. He took off his jacket and kicked off his boots before heading straight for his bedroom. He was exhausted; he needed sleep, and a lot of it.

The Colonel stepped into his bedroom and peeled off his shirt. As he was fumbling with the clasp of his belt, he heard a creak from behind him.

He whipped around.

A second later, there was the suppressed cough of a bullet being fired out of a silenced gun.

* * *

Robin Ambrose was elated. Today, he would finally be released from the Portus Illuminatus hospital. He had been recovering for two weeks from bullet wounds to his abdomen and shoulder. He had been lucky; the bullets had not damaged any vital organs or ruined anything significant, though that did not mean that the wounds did not still hurt.

The twelve-year-old's shoulder still protested with spasms of pain when he put pressure on it. His left shoulder blade had been shattered by a high-caliber round from a Magistarium heavy machinegun and had required reconstructive surgery to put it back together.

On the bright side, any threat of infection was now gone. All Robin needed to complete his recovery was rest, though that was probably one of the many things he would not get.

He knew the Illuminati military was mobilizing outside of the city; when he looked out his window he could see that the streets were not as populated as they usually were. The twenty-thousand men and women serving in that army were gone. That was nearly a quarter of the Illuminati population.

Robin knew that the Magistarium was invading the UNSC tomorrow. Once the Magistarium's main armies departed, Nemesis III's internal security would be fatally weakened. This would allow the Illuminati military to attack and conquer Terra Firma while the Magisterial forces were away fighting in the UNSC. Robin had no doubt that the Illuminatus and the Coordinators planned on using him for what he was worth in the fighting to come ahead. If it meant having him fight before he was fully recovered, then so be it.

Robin had been rushed into emergency surgery after his arrival in the city two weeks ago. He had woken up two days later only to wish he hadn't. The wounds had still been fresh, and even though the pain meds helped, they didn't do much. His augmented senses were simply too acute to block out the pain the wounds caused. After the first week, though, things began to improve. He could get out of bed and eat normally first, then he could somewhat walk. By today, he could even jog without straining his body.

Colonel Robertson had come in to visit him a few days ago. From him, Robin had learned the status of the rest of his team. Judith, Drew, Francis, and Sean were all dead. Ishmael had been hit by a grenade and was in a coma, though he was expected to wake up soon. Jess had been grazed in the leg, but she was fine. Robertson had seemed like he was at a loss for words. Robin could tell that he did not lose men under his command very often, making it all the more painful for him when he did. Robin's respect for the Colonel rose as he saw that. There were commanders out there who were as cold and unfeeling as statues, but Robertson was not one of them.

Jess and Blaze had visited him no less than five times this past week. Nathan had come with them for two of those times. Blaze had constantly made fun of him for not being superhuman enough to dodge bullets. "You getting shot cost me five bucks!" the thirteen-year-old had complained, holding in his laughter.

Robin was expecting them in a few minutes; they usually visited in the late afternoon.

Today seemed off, though. The hospital was quiet, much quieter than it usually was. There were no longer any military personnel or MPs outside his door. After considering all of this, the twelve-year-old simply shrugged. They were all probably getting ready for the attack on the Magistarium.

Robin threw back his covers and climbed out of his bed. He dropped to the floor next to the bed and began to go through his daily routine of two-hundred push-ups. He was sweating by the time he finished and switched to sit-ups. He knew that he would be out fighting again soon; letting his muscles turn back to jelly would have been unwise.

There was a knock at the door as Robin entered his last set.

"Come in!" the twelve-year-old called out.

The door was pushed open and two people walked inside. One was a taller, gray-haired, bearded man dressed in white. He was Doctor Tanner, the one who had been overseeing Robin's recovery ever since his surgery. The other was a familiar seventeen-year-old youth operative holding a small package, dressed in the customary black of Special Operations.

"Here he is," Dr. Tanner said, gesturing to Robin. "I really must protest, though; he still needs more time to allow his body to fully-"

"Yes, Doctor, we have already been through this," Nathan's reply was. "He can run and even exercise; he will be fine. The military needs him more than ever now. My colleagues and I have orders straight from the Illuminatus to retrieve him."

"I know, I know…" Dr. Tanner sighed. The doctor turned to Robin and gestured for the twelve-year-old to stand up. "Robin, your friends have come to collect you. I have filed all of the appropriate paperwork; you are officially discharged from here."

Tanner discussed several last-minute things with Robin concerning his wounds, and then bid him farewell and left, leaving him alone with Nathan.

Nathan tossed Robin the package. "Your clothes are in there; get dressed and make it quick. Blaze and Jess are waiting; we have to report to Camp Geronimo."

Robin quickly got out of his hospital clothes and slipped into the black pants and shirt in the package. Once he was fully dressed, he joined Nathan in the hallway.

The two boys made their way through the hallways of the hospital and took an elevator down to the ground floor. They then checked out at the front desk before heading out into the parking garage. There was a transport warthog parked close-by. Jess and Blaze were waiting in the back, and a uniformed captain was sitting in the passenger seat.

Robin climbed into the back with Blaze and Jess. Jess gave him a hug and Blaze clapped him on the back, careful not to hit his wounded shoulder.

"Good to have you back, mate," Blaze said.

The officer in the passenger seat twisted around and gave them a nod. "Good to meet you; I am Captain Trevalis. General Sykes has sent me to escort you to Camp Geronimo."

Robin shook the man's hand.

The captain turned back around as Nathan powered up the engine and began to head for the exit out of the parking garage and onto the street. Nathan turned onto a main road and hit the power pedal, accelerating through the streets towards the edge of the city and Camp Geronimo.

* * *

Colonel Robertson was hitting the floor even as he heard the sound of the silenced gun firing. The shot sliced through the air where his head had just been, putting a sizeable hole in the bedroom wall. Robertson went into a roll as he hit the floor and snapped back to his feet just as the shooter aimed for a second time.

The Colonel lashed out and caught the shooter's arm as he fired. The shot went wide and hit the ceiling. Robertson grabbed the shooter's gun arm and slammed it against the wall, forcing the man to drop it.

The man gave a pained grunt, but quickly retaliated with a series of quick, sharp blows aimed at Robertson's face and neck. The Special Operations commander deflected them all, even scoring a few hits in between. Robertson managed to catch the shooter in the mouth, causing blood to run from it. The shooter was momentarily stunned, but he quickly recovered and drove a knee into Robertson's side.

Robertson doubled over, the breath knocked out of him. The shooter delivered a sharp blow to the Colonel's jaw and knocked him to the ground. He then bent over to retrieve his gun, but Robertson, now lying on the floor, swept his leg around and caught the shooter in the back of his knees.

The shooter crumpled to the ground. Robertson was on top of him in a heartbeat. He got a chokehold on the shooter, but the man was stronger than he was. He threw off Robertson's grip and delivered another strong punch to the Colonel's face. Robertson flew back into the wall, bruising his shoulder.

Cursing and swearing, Robertson attacked the shooter again and locked arms in a temporary duel of strength. The man nearly broke his grip, but Robertson quickly twisted away and head-butted the shooter before the other man could strike. The shooter's nose, now definitely broken, caused his eyes to water and tear up. The shooter swung his arms around wildly, trying to hit what he could not see.

Robertson brought up his own arm and blocked a blind swing. He ducked two more blows and side-stepped a kick before drawing in close. He quickly wrapped an arm around the front of shooter's neck. With his other arm, he grabbed the side of the shooter's head and jerked to it the side. Robertson almost winced as he heard the audible _crunch_ of the man's neck snapping. The would-be assassin went limp.

Robertson let the man's body crumple to the ground. He fumbled around in the darkness and found a lightswitch, flicking the lights on.

"Motherfucker…" the Colonel murmured, the expletive summing up the blizzard of emotions and questions whizzing through his head right now. Lying on the floor was the body of the man who had just tried to kill him. The man was dressed in a House Guard uniform.

* * *

As the warthog drew nearer to the front entrance of Camp Geronimo, Robin could sense that something was wrong. Three black transport trucks were parked outside the front gate. As Nathan drove the warthog up to them, men dressed in the dark gray uniforms of the House Guard clambered out of the vehicles, all of them armed with assault rifles. One of them, a tall, pale man with captain's bars on his helmet, held up his hand and flagged the warthog down.

"What do you want?" Captain Trevalis asked, his dislike of the House Guardsmen evident in his voice.

"I have orders to bring these youth operatives to Special Operations HQ for a last-minute briefing from Colonel Robertson," the House Guard captain said. "You are to continue on to Camp Geronimo; leave them with us."

"I would like confirmation of these orders," Captain Trevalis said as he climbed out of the warthog. "This is _highly_ irregular."

The House Guard captain pulled out a document and presented it to the Illuminati military captain. On it was a confirmation of those orders along with the Illuminatus's personal seal.

Captain Trevalis still looked uncertain. "This is interfering with the military's operations; I want to confirm these orders verbally. I'm sure the Illuminatus will understand."

Robin noticed the subtle twitches in the faces of the House Guards, as well as the way their grips tightened around their weapons. Even the House Guard captain's hand dropped down to the sidearm on his belt.

"It would be a _very_ good idea, Captain, not to question our orders," the House Guard captain said.

"Is that a threat, captain?" Trevalis asked, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

"I do not want it to be, sir," the House Guard captain said.

Captain Trevalis called the House Guardsman's bluff. "Then you would not mind if I got onto the COM with General Sykes to inform him of this change of plan."

The House Guard captain's expression remained static. "Not at all, sir," the captain said. He then drew his sidearm and shot Captain Trevalis between the eyes. The captain's head flopped back and his body fell to the ground like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut.

With a cry of surprise, Robin leaped out of the warthog with Nathan, Jess, and Blaze and swiftly grabbed the magnum out of Captain Trevalis's belt. The captain would no longer be needing it. He aimed it at the House Guard captain. "Are you out of your mind?!" the twelve-year-old screamed. "You killed him!"

"Drop it, kid," the House Guard captain said to Robin.

"What, so you can shoot _me_, too?"

A laugh filled the air, a familiar laugh. Well, the laugh itself was not familiar, but the voice doing the laughing was. The front door of the second truck, which had remained sealed shut, popped open and the Illuminatus stepped out.

"Shoot you, Robin Ambrose? Quite the contrary; you are no use to me as a corpse," the leader of the Illuminati mused. The masked man gave out a sharp whistle and a number of House Guardsmen clad in camouflage suddenly dropped out of the trees, surrounding the four youth operatives.

They moved fast, grabbing hold of and subduing Jess and Blaze before they could even react. Nathan managed to knock one man out and give another a black eye before he, too, was incapacitated.

Robin lashed out at the two men who tried to take him. He struck the first man in the throat and crushed his windpipe. The second man ducked Robin's first blow, but was not prepared for how fast the boy's second strike would come. Robin caught the man under his arm, temporarily paralyzing it. He then delivered a strong kick to the man's chest, shattering most of the man's ribs. The House Guardsman fell to the ground, screaming in agony.

The rest of the House Guardsmen quickly aimed their rifles at Robin as he did this. The twelve-year-old backed down; there was no way he could dodge bullets from a single direction, let alone from all sides.

"Amusing, but futile," the Illuminatus sighed.

"Why are you doing this? What do you want!?" Robin shouted at the Illuminatus. As he shouted this, a new realization dawned on him as his mind processed this new turn of events. "_You're_ the traitor! _You're_ the one who told the Magistarium my team would be in the Andorra Region! _You're_ the one who-"

"Yes, yes," the Illuminati dismissed Robin's accusations with a wave of his hand. "I had hoped those Paladins would be able to capture you peacefully. It would have saved me the trouble of having to do it personally."

"But _why?_" Blaze exclaimed from where he was being held. "You of all people, _why_ would you betray your own-"

The Illuminatus laughed again, a sneering chuckle, not a jovial one. "I keep forgetting about this mask. You see, I belong to neither side. Each side—Illuminati _and_ Magistarium—belongs to _me_," the leader of the Illuminati reached up to his face and removed the expressionless silver mask from his head, casually tossing it aside.

"_You?!_" Robin could barely contain his shock. This explained why he had thought there was something familiar about the leader of the Illuminati; he had _met_ him before.

The Director of Shade Branch's mouth curved upwards in a leering smile. "You are in way over your head, boy."

"It was you all along, but…what about High Chancellor Delmar? _He_ controls the Magistarium, not you," Robin pointed out.

The Illuminatus/Director snorted with contempt. "That deluded fool is just that; a fool. Still, he does pose an obstacle to my plans. But I digress; we are not here to discuss the dear High Chancellor."

The Illuminatus/Director took a step forward, but Robin aimed Trevalis's magnum at the masked man and cocked it. "Stay back," the twelve-year-old said, his voice quavering.

"Robin," the Director sighed, continuing to speak in his icy-cold tones. "Please, there is no need to make this difficult. Simply drop the magnum, and come with me." The Illuminatus took another step forward, but quickly stepped back after Robin fired a shot between his legs.

Robin could faintly hear the sound of shouts coming from Camp Geronimo nearby. Soldiers had obviously heard the gunshots.

The Illuminatus/Director issued a sharp order and the ring of House Guardsmen all raised their assault rifles and trained them on the twelve-year-old in the center. "Time is running short, my friend," the masked man said, his voice growing impatient.

"Don't do it, Robin!" Jess managed to shout. "If they get you, we're all-"

Jess's voice was cut off when the House Guardsman holding her delivered a sharp blow to the back of her head, knocking her out for the moment.

"If you want me, come and take me," Robin almost whispered. "Though I wonder how many more men you'll lose before you do."

"Very well," the Director sighed. He gave one of his men a discreet nod.

The House Guardsman restraining Nathan pushed the seventeen-year-old down onto the ground. He pressed his boot down on the back of Nathan's neck and, after taking careful aim with his assault rifle, fired a single shot into the back of his head.

Nathan's body jerked as the bullet tore through his skull and then lay limp on the ground, a pool of blood slowly spreading out around it in a widening circle. Blaze let out a furious roar and lunged at the man who did the deed, but he was grabbed and thrown back wards back onto the ground by his captor.

Before Robin could even react, the Director drew his own sidearm and aimed it straight at Jess, who was just regaining consciousness. "Robin, you now find yourself at a crossroads," the Director hissed, his voice savage. "If you do not give yourself up in the next five seconds, I will shoot her. If you shoot or attack any of my men, I will shoot her. If you shoot _me_, then my men will shoot her _and_ Blaze. What's it going to be? The clock is ticking. Five…"

"Put the gun down!" Robin raised his voice, holding his magnum with both hands now, keeping it trained on the Director's head.

"Not going to happen," the Director said matter-of-factly. "Four…"

Robin was faintly aware of Blaze and Jess shouting at him, yelling at him not to give himself up, even if it meant their deaths.

"Three…"

_I can't let them die_... _I would go insane_…

"Two…" the Director cocked his pistol and curled his index finger around the trigger.

"Please," Robin pleaded with the Director. "Don't do this!"

"Their fate is in _your_ hands, not mine," the Director replied, his voice remaining static. "One…" his trigger finger tightened and began to squeeze.

Jess screwed her eyes shut, waiting for the end.

"Wait!" Robin shouted. "Wait, don't do it! I'll come with you, I'll do anything; just don't kill her!" the twelve-year-old nearly sobbed. He relaxed his grip on the magnum and dropped it, kicking it over to a House Guardsman, who picked it up and tossed it to his superior.

The Director holstered his own sidearm, smiling his cold, emotionless smile once more. "See? Was that so hard?" the lean, pale man purred. He pulled out another gun—a smaller, grayer one—aimed it straight at Robin, and pulled the trigger.

The blue-eyed twelve-year-old gave a surprised yelp as the tranquilizer dart caught him in the chest. He fell to his knees, fighting against the deep weariness which now spread through his system. He lost the fight after a few seconds, and collapsed completely, falling face-down onto the ground, unconscious.

The Director gestured for the House Guardsmen to pick him up. One man shouldered his weapon and grabbed Robin's motionless body, slinging him up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The Director then ordered his men back into the trucks. "You six," he selected six men before they could climb into their vehicles. "Take the two youth operatives into the woods and dispose of them; they know too much. When you're done, join your comrades in the city."

"Yes, sir," the leader of the six indicated House Guardsmen—a three-striper sergeant—nodded.

"You bastard!" Jess shouted at the top of her lungs, struggling with her captors to lunge at the Director, but she could not evade her beefy House Guardsman's grip. "Let Robin go; he's done _nothing_ to deserve-"

"War and conquest is an ugly business," the Director sighed with blatantly false sorrow. "Innocents suffer regardless. Have a good day," the Director tipped an imaginary hat to Jess and Blaze as he closed the truck's door behind him.

Two of the three trucks, fully loaded with all of the House Guardsmen except for the six soon-to-be executioners, started their engines and turned themselves around, moving away down the road, most likely to a ship or some other means of escape.

Jess watched them leave, hatred and frustration speeding her heartbeat.

"Alright, ladies, right this way," the House Guard sergeant chuckled to Jess and Blaze.

Both Jess and Blaze had two House Guardsmen each keeping them restrained. They were taking no chances. The sergeant led his five men into the woods for a distance until they stumbled upon a clearing.

The sergeant barked out an order and his men took Jess and Blaze out into the center of the clearing. That done, two of the men drew their pistols and screwed on silencers, checking to see if they were loaded and prepped.

"Any last words, ladies?" the sergeant asked, his voice layered with anticipation of the deed he was about to commit.

"Go fuck yourself," Blaze spat at the man. The spittle missed, but the point was made.

The sergeant's mouth tightened into a hard line. "Charming," he said. He gave his men a quick nod. "Get it over with, and try not to make too much of a mess of things."

"With pleasure, sir," one of the men with the pistols replied. "On three?" he said to the other man with a silenced pistol at the ready.

"Sure, why not," the other man shrugged.

The two men cocked their pistols and pressed them to the backs of Jess and Blaze's heads. "One…" the first man began the count. "Two…_three_-"

A shot rang out.

Blaze felt something wet splatter over his neck and flinched, stiffening and preparing himself for the bullet which was bound to follow. A second passed. Then another. Blaze realized that he was still alive and cracked open an eye. He put a hand to his neck and it came away red with blood, but the blood was not his.

The men who were about to shoot him and Jess lay dead on the ground, perfect bullet holes in the sides of their heads.

"What the fuck?" the House Guard sergeant managed to say before he was suddenly drowned out by a clamor of deafening shouts coming from the woods.

The House Guardsmen turned and opened fire with their assault rifles, strafing the bushes and trees.

There was an answering hail of bullets which came out of the woods. Two more of the House Guardsmen were killed where they stood. Another was hit in the neck and the sergeant took a round to the arm.

The clearing was filled with shouts of "Drop the gun!" and "Get down on your knees!"

A dozen men clad in the butternut fatigues of the Illuminati military emerged from the woods, assault rifles at the ready.

The House Guardsman hit in the neck managed to raise his pistol and squeeze off a shot, but his aim was way off. Three Illuminati soldiers promptly took aim at the wounded man and opened fire, silencing him permanently.

Another soldier struck the House Guard sergeant on the back of the head with the butt of his rifle, knocking the man out cold.

"Area clear," another soldier reported, following protocol.

The leader of the squad of common soldiers, a red-bearded staff sergeant, gave that soldier a nod. "Aight, good work, boys."

"What the hell is going on?" Blaze, who was picking himself up off the ground asked.

"You are extremely lucky we happened to be on patrol in these parts," the staff sergeant said, extending a hand to Jess and lifting her up to her feet. "We heard gunshots and came to investigate. We also have orders to shoot House Guardsmen on sight; they've just attempted a coup."

"What?!" Blaze exclaimed. "_All_ House Guardsmen?"

"Mm-hmm," the staff-sergeant nodded. "Colonel Robertson just issued the order to shoot the bastards on sight."

"What about the Coordinators?" Jess asked. "Shouldn't _they_ be the ones to-"

"The Coordinators are all dead; murdered by the House Guardsmen. I never trusted those shady, uptight fuckers in the first place; we should have seen this coming…what purpose could someone possibly have for a private security force other than to have it functioning as a counterweight to the army?" the staff sergeant muttered. He then gave Jess and Blaze a strange look, a look of familiarity taking root on his face. "Wait a sec, Colonel Robertson told me to keep an eye out for a group of four youth operatives and an army captain; we found two bodies on the street. Now there are you two…that only makes four…where-"

"Robin Ambrose was just captured by the Illuminatus and the House Guardsmen," Jess spat, her voice shaking with anger as she informed the staff sergeant of what had just transpired. "They drove off and left the six men who you just shot here to kill us, but the point is that-"

The staff sergeant held up his hand, quelling Jess. He had paled considerably once he learned this. "The _Illuminatus?!_ This is _not_ good…Colonel Robertson issued a priority-alpha order to locate and secure the Ambrose kid…_shit_…" the staff sergeant straightened up and turned to one of his men. "Get on the COM with Camp Geronimo; tell them to send a clean-up team to this location. Parker, grab the prisoner," the noncom ordered another one of his men before turning back to Jess and Blaze. "You two are coming with us; General Sykes and Colonel Robertson need to hear what you have to say. I think the UNSC is going to be in huge trouble if what you say is true, _huge_ trouble."


	44. Chapter 43: Dragons of the 13th Armored

Chapter Forty-Three: Dragons of the 13th Armored

**1358 Hours, November 2, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Irivet V, Canis Serpentis System**

**Ainsdell City, Near the Main Boulevard**

The interior of the dragon was relatively comfortable temperature-wise. The engines and power kept the inside of the tank warm, which was a perk in the crisp, colder autumn weather in Ainsdell City.

Master Sergeant Harry Irons was definitely not complaining. Sure, during the summer the inside of his tank could be stifling, but it felt just fine now. Besides, the interior of this tank was nothing compared to the cramped, stuffy coffins which passed for cockpits in the scorpions which Irons had used to operate.

Master Sergeant Irons grimaced as he recalled his scorpion driver days. The one-man tanks were not the most powerful tanks in the UNSC arsenal, but they were the easiest to transport. As such, scorpions had been designated as main battle tanks. Irons had served in a scorpion ever since he had been pushed through training on Reach ten years before the end of the Great War, surviving battles on Emerald Cove, Miridem, Paris IV, and Delta Halo.

The Master Sergeant hadn't come through unscathed, though; he had the scars and burn marks at various places on his body to prove it, but he had been lucky for surviving in a tank for so long.

Now, the middle-aged senior noncom found himself in command of a five-man M1-Delta Heavy Battle Tank, or 'Dragon' as it was more commonly referred to. Despite its significantly larger crew than the one-man scorpions, the dragons had really grown on Irons. Their armor was much thicker and they fired 120mm shells, as opposed to the scorpion's mere ninety millimeters. They could travel faster and could take more punishment than the more common scorpions could.

"God, what a shithole…" Frank Liebgott, the driver, muttered from atop the tank, where he was lounging.

Master Sergeant Irons couldn't help but agree. Much of Ainsdell City had been reduced to ruins by the battle which had now been raging in it for nearly a month and a half. The sky was constantly filled with hazy, smoky smog from the thousands of fires which still burned all over the city. Corpses—both clad in Insurrectionist gray, UNSC green-black, and civilian clothing—still littered the streets. It was impossible to go fifty yards without running into a few bodies. The battlefield sanitation units were doing their level best to try to clean the corpses up, but they were not miracle workers.

The fact that the First Expeditionary Force had nearly been driven into the Marisle River two weeks ago did not help, either.

Two weeks ago, the Insurrectionists had launched a surprise armored assault, driving right into the center of the UNSC lines in Firelso Square and shattering them like a thin pane of glass. The UNSC forces had been driven back northeast through the city all night. They were close enough to the Marisle River to skip rocks by the time UNSC artillery managed to halt the Insurrectionist advance.

General Morrison, the commander of 5th Division, had been killed in the initial strike in Firelso Square. Lieutenant General Hasegawa, the commander of the entire II Corps, had also been moderately wounded and was recovering in one of the field hospitals.

In the meantime, General McCandlish had taken over command of II Corps until Hasegawa was fit for duty, though he still kept in close contact with Lieutenant General Wyvern—the commander of I Corps, which was bogged down in the south of Ainsdell—when the COMs decided to work.

McCandlish had brought Lieutenant General Harrington's armor into the city to counter the Insurrectionist's tanks and infantry. He had previously wanted to avoid this; believing that bringing tanks into a city was a recipe for disaster, but given the current circumstances, there was no other choice.

The Insurrectionists also no longer had the manpower and materiél to mount separate assaults on the UNSC flanks outside of the city, so Harrington was able to move his armor away from those lines and into the city without any subsequent consequences.

Irons was not complaining either; the battle had been raging for well over a month, and he and his comrades had spent the greater part of that month lounging around the flanks, doing absolutely nothing while the marines pushed through the city.

And so, after two weeks of heavy fighting through the city to reclaim the ground which the UNSC had lost, Master Sergeant Harry Irons found himself on 15th Avenue, repairing the engine to his M1-Delta Dragon.

"Hey, Linstrom! Get off your lazy ass, rub your two brain cells together, and toss me the ratchet!" Master Sergeant Irons hollered over to Brian Linstrom, his gunner.

Linstrom flipped Irons the bird, but jumped down from the top of the dragon and opened the toolbox which Irons had set down, rummaging through until he found the ratchet wrench which Irons had 'requested'. "Here you are, sir," the gunner said, tossing his commander the tool.

"Thanks," Irons caught it and returned his attention to the exposed engine of the heavy battle tank. "Goddamn power cufflinks on the fuel cells keep coming loose. That hit we took back near the river really shook them up…_there_," Irons finished with one last heave of the ratchet. "That should last us until we finally get blown up completely," Irons declared with satisfaction, rubbing the grime off his hands with an oil-stained rag. "If the Rebs are going to blow us up, it would be nice if they would just do it _properly_ for once so that I don't have to constantly worry about fixing the engine every few days."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, sir," Liebgott grunted.

"How's your gun looking, Paul?" Irons shot the query over to Paul Everett, the bow gunner, who was oiling down the dragon's bow machinegun.

"I think I've oiled her up well enough," Everett replied. During the reconquista of 15th Avenue from the Insurrectionists, the frontal ball-mounted machinegun which provided the dragon its main source of anti-infantry firepower had jammed, which had nearly allowed Irons's tank to get swarmed by Insurrectionist ground troops. Only the timely intervention of another tank had saved them.

Irons checked the machinegun himself. It seemed in good shape, though looks could always be deceiving. The tank commander told Everett to climb into the dragon and test out the machinegun to be certain that his job on the gun was satisfactory.

As Paul Everett climbed up on top of the tank and threw open the front hatch nestled under the dragon's main cannon to climb in, a small, wiry man with a bushy black mustache and lieutenant's bars on his shoulder straps and helmet walked over from one of the other four tanks sitting nearby.

"Harry!" Lieutenant Beauregard called out to Master Sergeant Irons. "Just got orders from Major Landry; we're moving up with the rest of the company and relieving Prince's tanks. I don't want to get moving until you're ready, so hurry it up."

Beauregard was an armored platoon leader, in charge of five tanks, including his own. Irons, who had outlived more platoon lieutenants than he cared to count, knew how to tell good officers from bad ones. Beauregard had yet to get himself or his men killed in a fatal blunder yet, so Irons was content to count him among the first group.

"I hear ya, El-Tee; I'm just making sure our bow machinegun won't bitch on us again when a rocket team decides to show up," Master Sergeant Irons called back. He stepped aside and gave the front of his dragon a hard rap with his knuckles. "Give her a squeeze, Paul!" he shouted to the bow gunner inside.

Everett complied, firing off a short burst of machinegun-fire into a nearby brick wall which was the only still-standing part of the building which it had supported. The burst from the bow machinegun tore into the wall and blew away a few sizeable chunks.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Lieutenant Beauregard nodded, snapping Irons a quick salute. "Good luck, Harry."

"Likewise, sir," Master Sergeant Irons returned the salute before turning on his heels and addressing the four men under him which formed his dragon's crew. "On your feet, ladies; naptime's over!"

The three tank crewmen still outside grumbled quietly amongst themselves, wise enough not to grouse directly to their commander. Irons climbed up on top of his dragon and held the hatch open. Frank Liebgott climbed in first, followed by Linstrom and Hal Garcia, the gunnery loader.

Master Sergeant Irons climbed in and closed the hatch over him, settling down in the command seat which was situated right below the front hatch, behind the driver's and bow gunner's seats and in front of the gunner's seat, and next to the tank's communications gear which kept it in contact with the other tanks in its unit.

Irons activated the COM and set it to his platoon's channel. After a minute, Beauregard's voice issued forth, requesting for all of his tanks to acknowledge.

"Famine-Three reporting," one of the other tank commanders in Beauregard's platoon said over the COM.

"Famine-Five, alive last time I checked."

"Famine-Four, ready to rock."

Master Sergeant Irons reported in last. "Famine-Two, needing a new Goddamn job."

"All tanks have reported in; we are go," Lieutenant Beauregard said. "Follow my lead."

"Engines, Frank," Irons ordered. "Get us moving."

Frank Liebgott settled back into his driver's seat, which he had customized with a leopard-print seat cover 'liberated' from a burnt-out shop, and fired up the tank's engine. The dragon hummed to life. Frank guided the tank forward, falling into formation behind Lieutenant Beauregard's tank as it rumbled off down 15th Avenue, heading towards Downing Street, which would take them onto the Main Boulevard.

As the other three tanks fell in behind him, Irons made sure everything was ready for the first sign of trouble. After all, an Insurrectionist rocket team didn't hesitate to fire on a UNSC tank just because its crew wasn't ready yet.

Battered and exhausted marines of the 54th Regiment of General Armistead's 3rd Division, who had fought for the second time to wrestle this very street away from the Insurrectionists, moved out of the way for Beauregard's platoon.

"Give 'em hell, boys!" a marine captain whose arm was in a bloodied sling hollered at the passing tanks.

Master Sergeant Irons ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair, his heart beginning to speed up as the sounds of battle grew louder. Even after twenty-odd years of driving tanks, he still got that nervous feeling any soldier got before charging into a hail of bullets. Of course the bullets weren't the problem; Irons's problems were landmines, rockets, and other tanks. The Insurrectionists still had plenty of tanks in the ruins out there; the same tanks which had pushed II Corps back to the Marisle River, the same tanks which were the reason why the First Expeditionary Force was not slaughtering the Insurrectionists in the moors west of the city right now.

After a few minutes of steady driving down 15th Avenue, Beauregard's platoon linked up with several others on Downing Street. The combined force of tanks fanned out, keeping their line staggered to minimize the threat of multiple tanks going up in smoke from the same hit.

This street had been taken only minutes ago by Major Prince's tanks, the ones which Irons and the others would be relieving. Lucky them.

As the sounds of the raging battle to take the Main Boulevard grew almost deafening, Master Sergeant Irons popped the hatch and stuck his head and shoulders out of the dragon's cupola, bringing a pair of field glasses to his eyes. He kept a close eye on the ruins to either side of the street, ever vigilant for Insurrectionist stragglers who felt like dying for their nation.

The COM crackled as Major Landry contacted the marines of the 54th and informed them of their arrival, telling them to watch their fire.

"You got it, Major; glad to have you join us," a marine company commander's reply was.

"Beauregard, take the Main Boulevard," Landry ordered over the COM. "Hazlett's platoon will be in reserve. Everyone else, continue on with me; we'll help the 29th break the Rebs' lines further south."

"Acknowledged, sir," Lieutenant Beauregard's reply was. He asked all four of his subordinate tank commanders to acknowledge as well, and they did. "Alright, then. Keep it together, boys; you heard the Major."

Irons sighed. Major Landry commanded a tank just like he did; he didn't hang back in an HQ far behind the lines, so Irons really couldn't gripe about him, however much he wanted to.

Downing Street finally reached the Main Boulevard. Major Landry's tank and most of the others continued across the main road, but Beauregard and Hazlett's platoons turned left and fanned out onto the Main Boulevard.

The road was much worse for wear; the battle had turned it more into a trail of potholes and craters than a legitimate road, forcing the tanks to maneuver around those obstacles to avoid getting stuck.

Irons peered ahead through his field glasses to get a good look at what he was about to head into. Several hundred yards ahead was the foremost offensive line which the 54th Regiment had established; a semi-organized advance of dozens of squads of marines, moving from one pile of debris to another, keeping their heads down. Other marines returned fire from safer positions or simply fired blindly over whatever they were hiding behind. Irons's forehead creased in a frown as he saw that. Blind fire like that was as likely to hit fellow marines as it would Insurrectionists. It was also simply a waste of ammunition.

The tank commander shrugged. Those foolish men and women were the problems of infantry commanders, not his own.

Irons gazed past the slowly advancing UNSC marines and saw at least a battalion of gray-uniformed Insurrectionist soldiers firmly dug in behind a semi-prepared line of destroyed vehicles and piles of debris from the collapsed buildings lining the Main Boulevard.

"This is Famine Leader," Lieutenant Beauregard's voice came out of the COM next to Irons's seat. "Take it slowly; don't leave any of their positions intact."

One of the other tanks opened fire with its main cannon, sending a heavy 120mm tungsten shell into one of the Insurrectionist positions. It impacted with a brilliant explosion, sending both men and debris alike flying in all directions.

A concealed Insurrectionist heavy machinegun erupted to life in a dark window in one of the ruined buildings off to the side. The stream of bullets clanged off of the dragon's heavy titanium shell, sending sparks everywhere.

Master Sergeant Irons quickly dropped out of the cupola and back into the safety of the dragon's interior. He was a fearless tank commander, but not a stupid one. The tank commander pulled the hatch shut after he withdrew inside; no need to have a stray round get inside and ricochet around the interior until the entire crew was a memory.

"Front!" Irons called out to his gunner. "Second-story window at two o' clock!"

"Identified," Linstrom replied, peering through the gunsights. "High-explosive," he said to Hal Garcia, the loader.

Garcia jerked a red-tipped high-explosive round into the breech, giving Linstrom a pat on the shoulder to signal that the cannon was loaded.

"Fire!" Irons yelled.

Linstrom did just that. He squeezed the triggers and the dragon's main cannon roared to life, propelling the high-explosive round out of its barrel and into the window through which the Insurrectionist machinegun was clattering.

The entire window vanished, going up in a ball of flame. Debris was propelled all over the street, some of the shrapnel hitting the Insurrectionist infantry below.

As Liebgott guided the dragon through the UNSC lines and into the no-man's-land in between them and the Insurrectionist positions, Linstrom sunk another HE round into a pile of ruined vehicles, sending the burnt-out husks flying and opening up a pathway for the dragon to advance through.

The ball-mounted frontal AIE-486X machinegun began to clatter as Paul Everett opened up on the Insurrectionist soldiers who moved to plug the gap in their lines. Five of the men in gray were cut down and the rest scattered.

Irons looked away from the periscopes which enabled him to see outside the dragon without physically sticking his head and shoulders out of the cupola, not wanting to see the corpses which his tank was driving over.

When he returned his attention to the road ahead of him, Irons noticed movement in another window further up the street. He wasn't sure if the men behind it had a rocket launcher, but he wasn't about to take the chance. "Paul!" he hollered over to the bow gunner, who was sitting up front next to the driver, "Sink a few rounds into that bay window at 12:30!"

Everett complied, turning his ball-mounted bow machinegun towards the indicated window and opening fire. A shower of rounds shattered the window and tore up the bricks which formed its frame. Irons checked the window with the periscopes again and didn't see any more movement. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to the road ahead.

Over the next few hours, Beauregard's platoon of five tanks pushed the Insurrectionists on the Main Boulevard back. At times they had to slow their advance to allow their comrades fighting on the streets to the west and south to catch up. They encountered a few rocket teams and many more machinegun positions during the drive forward back towards Firelso Square. Irons and the other tanks in Beauregard's platoon wasted them all. The dragons did not waste time killing off the Insurrectionist infantry; they simply took out the fortified positions and heavy weapons, leaving the infantry to be mopped up by the marines of the various companies and platoons of the 54th Regiment which were advancing with them.

The sun was sinking towards the western horizon, bathing the city of Ainsdell in a rich golden-orange glow, when Firelso Square came into sight; way off in the distance, but visible nonetheless.

"Nearly there, boys, keep on pressing 'em!" Major Landry's voice encouraged his men via the COM.

During the bloody advance, one of the tanks in Beauregard's platoon had hit a roadside explosive and lost a tread, forcing the crew to halt their advance to repair the damage.

Replacing a damaged tread took time; the damaged tank still had yet to rejoin its comrades.

Despite the loss, Beauregard's dragons still pressed on, unyielding.

Until another tank exploded in a ball of flame.

"Jesus Fucking H!" Irons shouted in surprise as the dragon next to his own brewed up. It had been hit in the side, towards the front. No way in hell the driver and bow gunner had survived a hit like that. A series of loud bangs was heard as the ammunition began to fire off inside the tank's interior, ignited by the fire.

The top hatch was pushed open and the tank's commander—it was Sergeant Geoffries, Famine-Five—leaped out, followed closely by his gunner. Both were on fire as they fell onto the road. The loader didn't make it out. They had enough sense to roll around to starve the flames, but they were not completely put out until the infantry advancing with the tanks beat them out with heavy blankets.

Irons looked wildly through the periscopes, but couldn't see properly. Swearing to himself, he threw open the hatch and thrust his head and shoulders out of the cupola, ignoring small-arms fire which clanked off of the armor near his head, holding his field glasses back up to his eyes.

"Where the fuck did the shot come from?!" Famine-Three shouted over the platoon's COM channel.

"I think I see movement at two o' clock!" Beauregard exclaimed in response.

Irons immediately turned and looked to the right, scanning through the ruins for the enemy tank which had just killed three of his comrades. He looked through the ruins and saw nothing—wait!

Irons spotted slight movement in the burnt-out husk of a bakery. He peered closely, adjusting the focus on his field glasses. His face paled when he recognized it; a swiveling main cannon.

A hail of machinegun-fire forced Irons back down through the hatch, but the tank commander was ducking anyway, shouting, "Front! Bakery ruins at two o' clock! Hurr-"

The senior noncom was drowned out by the deafening sound of his dragon getting hit by a second shot from the hidden enemy tank. The shot hit the very front, but was deflected by the angle of the dragon's armor. All it ended up doing was making the crew's ears ring.

Linstrom shook his head, smacking his ears to get the ringing out. The gunner peered through the gunsights and identified the place which his commander had pointed out. Sure enough, there was an Insurrectionist tank holed up in there, its main cannon still smoking. Its commander must not have been too bright; an experienced tank commander would have relocated immediately after firing a single shot. This commander hadn't, and he would pay for his mistake.

"Target acquired!" Linstrom exclaimed. "Armor-piercing!"

"Coming right up," Hal Garcia jerked a blue-tipped armor-piercing round into the breech, tapping Linstrom once he was done.

"Fire!" Irons howled like a demented wolf.

Linstrom obliged and pulled the triggers. The smoking shell casing clanged back onto the floor as the main cannon fired.

The shot was a miss. Irons watched with dismay as the AP round slammed into the wall behind the enemy tank instead of the machine itself. "Flank speed! Flank speed!" he shouted to Liebgott.

The driver gunned the engine and the dragon leapt forward, rocking the crew in their seats.

"Armor-piercing!" Linstrom barked again, grinding his teeth in frustration at his failure.

Garcia slammed another AP round into the breech.

The enemy tank fired a third time, but it missed as well; Irons's dragon was moving fast enough for its gunner to miscalculate the trajectory needed to score a hit. Liebgott, hearing the shot, eased up on the engine and slowed the dragon down, allowing Linstrom to aim more easily.

The gunner took a quick glance through the gunsights and fired the cannon again. This time, the AP shell tore right into the enemy tank's turret. The top of the enemy tank was blown off, rendering it useless. The driver of the tank managed to bail out before the rest of the vehicle exploded, but he was quickly cut down by a quick burst from Everett's bow machinegun.

"Target destroyed," Irons reported, peering at the burning wreck of the enemy tank through his periscopes. "Good work…"

The master sergeant would have sounded more enthusiastic if it hadn't taken the death of half of Famine-Five's crew to spot the enemy tank. He would have to be even more vigilant; the Insurrectionist tanks blended right in with the ruins in this part of town.

During the rest of the advance to Firelso Square, Beauregard and Hazlett's platoons encountered another small, concentrated force of enemy tanks, but a light UNSC artillery strike softened them up before they could cause too much damage. Beauregard's tank took a graze in the side, but didn't throw a tread or blow up. Hazlett's platoon lost a dragon, but the other four escaped unharmed.

The two platoons continued to rumble down the Main Boulevard, leaving the burning husks of the destroyed Insurrectionist tanks in their wake. The marines of the 54th Regiment were hot on their heels, cleaning up everything the dragons missed.

The sun was touching the horizon when the dragons finally reached the entrance to Firelso Square. Lieutenant General Harrington himself was personally coordinating the assault on the nexus of Ainsdell City through his section leaders. Major Landry kept in close contact with his six platoons, relaying orders from Colonel Vincent, whose orders were coming from Harrington himself.

Screeches filled the air as UNSC mortar-fire rained down on the Insurrectionists within Firelso Square. The marines drew up alongside the dragons, which were all lined up along Firelso Square's western perimeter and a portion of its northern one. Irons thrust his head and shoulders back out of the cupola and drew his field glasses back up to his eyes.

There was a series of sharp pops of detonating smoke grenades, followed closely by thick, nearly-opaque clouds of gray smoke. Once the smoke had billowed out enough, the men of the 54th Regiment and all the other five regiments of II Corps advanced, under cover of the smoke.

Insurrectionist machineguns fired blindly into the smoke and still dealt the advancing marines casualties, but they caused much less than they would have if they had been able to actually see their targets.

The dragons of the 13th Armored Division were forced to sit back and wait for the infantry to carve out a foothold in the square. Normally it would have been _tanks_ which would have done the initial advancing, but the urban environment complicated that to no end. Infantry could get many places tanks could not in a city, so it was the infantry who cleared out the first few hundred yards of the three-mile long and wide central square.

The moment the smoke cleared, Major Landry got onto the COM and ordered his platoons forward. Beauregard relayed the command to his other three dragons—Famine-Four had repaired its tread and rejoined the platoon an hour prior—and got his own men moving.

"Alright, Frank," Irons called down to the driver. "Hit it."

Liebgott fired up the dragon's engine and guided it forward into Firelso Square, moving abreast with the other dragons and the handful of scorpions in the 13th Armored.

"Infantry has spotted enemy armor on the other side of the Rebs' lines!" Major Landry's voice cut through the hum of the engine. "We're going to have company!"

Insurrectionist counterbattery-fire screamed through the air and slammed down on UNSC artillery positions farther back in the city. Irons did not know how much damage either side caused, and it wasn't his job to know, either.

A machinegun set between two memorial statues commemorating dead UNSC marines from the Great War clattered to life, spitting death and mayhem into the UNSC lines. Unacceptable.

"High explosive," Linstrom said to the loader.

Garcia jerked another red-tipped HE round into the breech and gave the gunner a tap.

Linstrom fired, mentally apologizing to the two memorial statues. There was a large blast between the two statues accompanied with flying sandbags. The machinegun fell silent, its operators lying in pieces over a span of several yards.

Beauregard's platoon crashed right into the Insurrectionist lines and broke through almost instantly; the Insurrectionist infantry had no weapons capable of combating the dragons. Rocket launchers were few and far between. Even so, the few rocket teams prowling around the Insurrectionist lines did cause the advancing tanks a good measure of frustration.

A rocket just barely missed Lieutenant Beauregard's dragon as it was rumbling over a ruined statue. The team which fired that rocket managed to hit a tank from Worley's platoon off to the left before another dragon's machinegun managed to eliminate them.

Harrington's tanks and the Insurrectionist ones met nearly halfway into the Square. Irons's voice went hoarse from constant shouting; keeping his dragon alive required a lot of shouting with the crew. He ducked back into the interior of the tank after a burst of machinegun-fire clanked off of the armor near the hatch.

The dragon in front of Irons's hit a landmine and threw a tread, sagging to the side. It wouldn't be moving anyplace, but the crew inside kept aiming and firing the main cannon, doing as much damage as it could from its position. The crew was probably safer staying inside; bailing always ran the risk of getting gunned down before you could get to cover. Right now, the marines had broken the Insurrectionist lines and were dug in behind the 13th Armored; advancing with the column of enemy tanks blocking the way would have been a meatgrinder.

_Well, at least McCandlish is a good enough general to know when to stop_, Irons thought to himself as he searched for another adequate target. "Side!" the master sergeant called out to his gunner, spotting an enemy tank which was moving towards the UNSC lines. Somehow it had gotten past the dragons which were now behind it. "Three o' clock!"

"Identified! Range: ninety yards!" Linstrom replied, looking through the gunsights, rotating the turret to take aim. "Armor-piercing!"

The loader jerked another AP shell into the breech. "Let her rip!"

"Fire!" Irons barked.

Linstrom pulled the triggers and the main cannon roared, sending a 120mm tungsten armor-piercing round straight through the enemy tank's side. The enemy tank's hatches opened and the crew bailed out. Everett cut down three of them with the bow machinegun, but the other two took cover. No matter; they had nowhere to run.

There was a sharp whistle as a shell streaked right over Irons's dragon's head.

"Shit!" Irons swore, finding the tank which had fired the shot. "Front, twelve o' clock, next to the fountain!"

"Identified, range: three hundred yards!" Linstrom answered promptly. "Armor-piercing!"

Hal Garcia slammed the AP round into the breech, Linstrom fired, and the empty shell casing clanged back onto the floor, and Master Sergeant Irons confirmed the hit. Irons then spotted another enemy tank and the entire ritual was repeated over and over again. Sometimes Linstrom missed, most of the time he hit. The crews of the tanks which were not destroyed bailed out and met their ends at the barrel of Everett's bow machinegun turret, or got to cover before they were turned into Human swiss cheese.

Irons lost all track of time until Major Landry's voice came out of the COM once more, ordering all of his dragons to fall back to UNSC lines. The sky was a faint yellow in the west and a deep navy blue in the east as the sun moved illuminated the other side of Irivet V.

Tracer rounds filled the night, little streaks of lightning flying past each other, slamming into debris, earth, and unlucky men and women on both sides of the square. Liebgott guided the dragon through the UNSC lines and brought it to a stop in an open area in front of a large fountain. Liebermann killed the engine and unstrapped himself from his seat, standing up and stretching. Everett joined him, though the two men still had to keep low to avoid hitting their heads on the top of the dragon's interior.

Irons popped the hatch above his seat and climbed out, stretching his aching limbs and working out the kinks. He turned and extended a hand to Hal Garcia. The loader took it and pulled himself up and out. Linstrom climbed out last, joining his two comrades on top of the tank.

Everett and Liebgott had emerged from the front hatch and were leaning back against the dragon's side, both lighting up cigarettes and taking in long, deep breaths before exhaling the smoke into the cool night air.

"I'll be back," Irons announced as he jumped off of his tank. "I've been cooped up all fucking day; I gotta take a piss."

Irons went in the fountain which his dragon was parked next to. It was already filled with water; who would ever know? He then rejoined his men, who were sitting on top of the dragon, finding the most interesting places to lie down and relax.

"Bum a smoke off of ya?" Irons asked Everett.

"No problem, Sarge," the bow gunner pulled his pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket and, after lighting it with his black and gold checkered lighter, passed it to Irons, who took a grateful drag.

That was one of the advantages of smokes on a battlefield; they helped mask the stink of death. Irons truly felt sorry for the ones who didn't smoke and had to live through that stench day after day. He wondered how they got through it.

After a couple of hours, the tracer rounds vanished and fire from the Insurrectionist lines ceased altogether. All of them must have been sleeping or something; Irons couldn't hear a thing coming from their lines. Their sentries were doing an exceptional job at being quiet. At the same time, they must have been prepared to defend against a night assault; the UNSC had pulled that on them in the industrial sector, but they were not about to fall for it again.

At the same time, II Corps had sentries and units on watch, constantly on guard for an Insurrectionist attack in the night. After all, it had been a surprise nighttime attack over two weeks ago which had nearly driven II Corps into the Marisle River.

Irons finished his cigarette and lay back, staring up at the star-studded sky. There was a breeze tonight, and it had cleared up enough of the smog which had hung over Ainsdell like a shroud to reveal the night sky.

He found himself nodding off to sleep and didn't fight it. He had fought hard all day and if his body felt like sleeping then Irons wouldn't disappoint it.

* * *

Morning never came for Master Sergeant Irons. It was the very crack of dawn when he found himself being shaken awake by Lieutenant Beauregard. "Harry!" the lieutenant called out, rousing his subordinate. "Harry, orders just came in from Gerneal Harrington. I Corps has just arrived in the square. McCandlish has got II Corps on its feet and we're going to attack the Rebs' lines at first light, which is about ten minutes away. Rouse your crew and get your tank moving; our boys are going forward first."

Irons acknowledged with a yawn and a nod. Satisfied, Lieutenand Beauregard hopped off of Irons's tank and moved off to wake another of his men.

"Alright, ladies, up and at 'em!" Irons hollered to his four slumbering men after he woke himself up completely.

The four tank-men groaned and grumbled, muttering and swearing under their breaths.

"With all due respect, Sarge, go to Hell," Linstrom muttered.

Irons gave an amused chuckle. "That's exactly where you'll find yourself if you don't get your lazy ass into gear in the next three seconds. Come on, let's move!"

The dragon's crew was fully awake after a few seconds. They walked over to the fountain and quickly swished water from their canteens around in their mouths to wash out the nasty taste of waking up, spitting the water into the fountain before clambering into their tank.

"Fire her up, Frank," Irons ordered the driver.

Liebgott started up the engine and got the dragon moving.

After another few minutes, Irons found himself in front of the UNSC lines right next to Lieutenant Beauregard's dragon, among a long line of tanks from the 13th Armored stretching from one end of the Firelso Square to the other. General Harrington himself got onto the COM channel with all of the tanks. Irons could recognize his brusque, sandpapery voice anywhere. "All units advance," the armored commander ordered.

Liebgott gunned the engines and the dragon lurched forward. Irons kept his head and shoulders out of the cupola with his field glasses set to night vision. He exchanged a wave with Lieutenant Beauregard in the next dragon over.

"Keep the line together," Major Landry ordered over the COM. "We keep the line intact, we rip the Rebs a new one a helluva lot easier than we would otherwise."

The advance took a full minute before they reached the Insurrectionist lines.

Master Sergeant Irons was surprised at the reception he and the rest of the 13th Armored got. If a barrage of artillery had decimated them, he wouldn't have been too shocked. If rockets and leaped out of cracks in the earth and managed to blow him to Hell and gone, he wouldn't have been very surprised about it. If a volley of AP rounds from enemy tanks slammed into his own, he wouldn't have been startled out of his mind.

No, what _did_ startle him was nothing. That was what greeted the 13th Armored as it rumbled right into the Insurrectionist lines; _nothing_. No rockets, no artillery, on enemy tanks, _nothing_. Not even any small-arms fire. The entire square was quiet.

Five minutes later, the sun crested over the eastern horizon, casting a faint glow of morning sunlight over the buildings. Irons could clearly see what was around him in any case. Ruined ground and statues, corpses, blown-up tanks. No living Insurrectionist soldiers, though; not a single one.

"What the hell is going on out there, sir?" Garcia, the only crewman without a way to see outside, asked.

"Hot damn…" Irons murmured, scanning all of Firelso Square for any sign of movement, any soldiers in gray. Not a peep. "Looks like the Rebs just packed up and left, fuck me twice and call me Grandpa if they haven't…"

"They _left_ Firelso Square?" Garcia asked again, not quite believing what he was hearing. The First Expeditionary Force had fought tooth and nail for over a _month_ to take this city block by block, building by building from the Insurrectionists. The thought that the Insurrectionists could simply pack up and _leave_ was…inconceivable, to say the least.

"No," Irons murmured again, cocking his head and listening closely. The city of Ainsdell was silent, save for the wind. "No, I think they abandoned the entire city. They're gone. They're all gone."

Exclamations and transmissions of "What the hell is going on?", "Where did they all go?", and "Recon reports zero activity in the west," confirmed Irons's conjecture.

_But where had they gone?_

"Well, we'll probably end up wherever 'there' is pretty fuckin' soon…" Irons grumbled to himself after that thought presented itself in his mind.

"Sir?" Linstrom, just barely able to hear Irons say something under his breath, asked.

"Nothing," Irons sighed.

For one reason or another, the Insurrectionists had left Irivet V. For one of the first times in his military career, Master Sergeant Harry Irons was nervous as hell.


	45. Chapter 44: An Unexpected Reunion

Chapter Forty-Four: An Unexpected Reunion

**0826 Hours, November 3, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Portus Illuminatus, Terra Flammae Subcontinent**

"Something's wrong," Gerald murmured from the cockpit of his pelican.

"Hm?" Sam asked the Watchman. She rubbed her eyes and stood up from the co-pilot's seat which she had been sleeping in up to a few minutes ago, stretching her cramped limbs.

Gerald didn't give her one of his customary smiles or greetings. He was busy frowning over the pilot's console. "Something's wrong," he repeated himself. "I can't establish contact with Portus Illuminatus or Camp Geronimo…"

"You have COM capability out here?" Sam asked.

"Our city is just as advanced as one of yours, technologically speaking," Gerald replied. "Of course we have COM capabilities, but…this has never happened before; the long-range COM is...not working."

"Sabotage?" Sam suggested, leaning over Gerald to get a good look at the console for herself.

"Impossible," Gerald dismissed the possibility without the slightest moment's hesitation. "Nothing short of a full-scale battle in the city could knock our long-rage COM systems down, and there's absolutely no way…it must be a huge technical foul-up…" the Watchman shook his head and changed the subject. "No matter; we'll be arriving at the city in ten minutes. You should wake up your husband."

"Alright…keep a close eye on things," Sam said. "I'm not so sure this is a coincidence."

Sam brushed a stray strand of fiery hair out of her eyes and turned away from Gerald, ducking out of the cockpit and into the hold of the pelican. The rear ramp was sealed shut, rendering the hold dark and quiet.

Alex-G004 was sprawled out on one of the seat-benches which was built into the side of the hold, designed for the soldiers in the pelican to sit on before deployment. He did not snore—one of the many things which Sam was grateful for after they had settled down in Riverside—but he was breathing loud enough to be heard.

"Ace," Sam whispered into Alex's ear, gently shaking him awake. He was lucky; if Tyrone were here, he would have rolled Alex out onto the floor to rouse him. Sam had always been much gentler on her husband, even when they had been kids on Onyx. "Time to get up; we'll be at the Illuminati's city in a few minutes."

Alex cracked open his eyes and mumbled several unintelligible things, his weariness slurring his voice as his mind made the transition from resting to active. "I was dreaming about Kiev anyway…" the blue-eyed Spartan shrugged as he brought himself to full awareness. He looked up at Sam and pulled her down next to him, exchanging a warm kiss with his lover. "I still can't believe that we're finally going to see him again…I don't think I've been this excited since our first kiss on Onyx when we were nine. You remember that?"

Sam smiled at the memory. "Yeah…right at the bank of the Twin Forks River…you were so freakin' _shy_ back in those days…"

"Can you blame me? I was a sharpshooter; getting up close and personal wasn't exactly-"

"Holy shit!" Gerald exclaimed suddenly from the cockpit, making Alex and Sam leap to their feet.

Alex hurried into the cockpit first, moving up next to Gerald. "What is it?" he asked, though when he looked out the windshield his question was immediately answered.

Gerald was flying the pelican towards an extinct volcano covered in green forests and grassy expanses; an island of life in a sea of fiery wastelands. Sprawled out at the very base of the north side of the extinct volcano was a large city made largely of stone. It was not an ordinary city; the architecture and layout looked something straight out of the eighteenth or nineteenth century, but the technology was as advanced as any other modern metropolis.

The fact that a city was able to exist in a place like this would have been enough to awe Sam and Alex in the first place, but what really made their jaws drop—and what caused Gerald's outburst—was the battle raging in the western end of the city. From the altitude the pelican was at, the actual soldiers could not be seen, but the staccato flashes of weaponsfire were painfully visible, as were explosions and flying debris.

"What the hell is going on down there?!" Gerald practically screamed. This was almost too much for him; first he is almost killed—no, _assassinated_—by his own people, now he was returning to his home city, the safest place on Nemesis III, the only place whose existence the Magistarium didn't even have any knowledge of, and finding it riddled with fighting.

As Gerald brought the pelican into a descent towards the city, the COM crackled suddenly and a sharp voice broke through. "Unidentified dropship, this is Camp Geronimo; provide us with identification or you will be fired upon!"

Gerald pulled the mouthpiece over to his lips. "Larry! Larry, it's Gerald! What in the name of Christ's holy kidney stones is going on down there?!?"

"I have no time to explain; I am needed elsewhere," Larry, the operator at the other end of the COM, replied. "Alright, Gerald, you have your clearance. We won't blow you up."

"Much obliged!" Gerald killed the channel and brought the pelican in for a landing in the airfield at Camp Geronimo, the Illuminati military base located several kilometers outside the city. The moment Gerald touched down onto solid ground, he opened the rear of the dropship and killed the engine. He got up out of the pilot's seat and led Sam and Alex outside onto the airfield.

A minute later, a warthog driven by a runner arrived and transported them into the center of Camp Geronimo. A younger man with yellow hair and a handlebar mustache was poring over a holo-table inside the main HQ building. He straightened up and greeted Gerald with a strong handshake. "I cannot even begin to explain how good it is to see you, old friend," the yellow-haired man said. He caught sight of Sam and Alex and fell silent for a moment. He stared at Alex's eyes and frowned, making the connection. "Are they who I think they are?" the man asked.

Gerald nodded. "Lionel, I'd like to introduce you to Alexander-G004 and Samantha-G113, or 'Ambrose' as they now call themselves. Alex, Sam; this is Colonel Lionel Robertson. He heads up Illuminati Special Operations."

Colonel Robertson gingerly shook Sam and Alex's hands, looking like a mouse in the middle of a tabby convention. "You have your son's eyes," Robertson said to Alex. "Not many people have that kind of blue."

"Where is he?" Alex could barely contain the anticipation in his voice.

Robertson let out a sigh and invited Gerald and the two Spartans to sit at the holo-table. "The House Guardsmen have attempted a…" Robertson searched for the right word, but could not find one. "Well, I would normally call it a coup d'état, but a coup is when a group of people depose their leader…"

"Wait, wait, slow down!" Gerald held up his hands, trying to make sense on what he had just heard. "You're saying the House Guardsmen are working for the Magistarium?"

"No," Robertson shook his head. "They're working for the Illuminatus! It's the _Illuminatus_ who betrayed us all; he and the House Guard; they just attacked the army and threw 'em all out of the city."

"_What?!_" Gerald's voice actually cracked with shock.

Robertson held up a hand, quelling the Watchman. "Don't bother speaking your mind; everyone's thinking the same thing. That's why it can't be a coup d'état, not when the leader is fighting _with_ the aggressors."

"What about the Coordinators?" Gerald asked next. "Where are they? They should be coordinating the assault in the-"

"They're all dead," Robertson spat angrily. "The House Guard murdered them all three nights ago, just before they attacked. Then they tried to kill me. Obviously, they failed, but they came _very_ close…they also tried to kill General Sykes and Colonel McChristie, but they weren't where they were supposed to be… Christ, what a-"

"_Where_ is my son?" Alex asked the question again, though his tone was harsher, weary of all the beating around the bush.

Colonel Robertson sucked in a breath and continued. "We don't know. He was kidnapped by the House Guard three days ago."

Neither Alex nor Sam moved. Their expressions did not change, either, which unnerved Robertson even more.

Gerald, however, was not so reserved. "We've _lost_ the Ambrose boy?! After _everything_ the Youth Ops in the Meillan Region and I went through to bring him here safely, we _lost_ him?!"

"Explain," Sam said; her voice an icy whisper.

"The Illuminatus's betrayal and that of the House Guard took us all by complete surprise. Sure, the army disliked the House Guard, but disliking them and considering them traitors are ballparks away from each other. They hit us when we were at our most vulnerable; all of our attention was focused on mobilizing for the attack on the Magistarium that we neglected to keep an eye on what was happening behind our walls…it would almost be like having all of your ODSTs turn on the UNSC with your Fleet Admiral Emerson _leading_ them in the betrayal; it would completely _blindside_ you! It did precisely that to us…"

"Where have they taken him, then?" Sam asked next, her voice becoming strained.

"That's the crux of the matter," Robertson sighed. "We have no idea where they have gone. We do not even know where the Main Invasion into UNSC space is going to attack; both of those things have been closely guarded secrets."

"So he's gone…_again_…" Alex murmured. He said a few more things to himself, his hands curling into fists.

"Ace…" Sam said, raising her voice so that her husband was forced to listen. "Ace, don't do anything you'll-"

Alex stood up abruptly and walked slowly towards the door.

"Well," Sam breathed a sigh of relief, sinking back into her chair. "He took that better than I was afraid he-" Sam was interrupted suddenly by the screech of twisting metal as Alex reached the door of the operations room and crumpled it into tinfoil with a powerful kick, continuing on outside without a word.

Sam's eyebrows shot up her forehead, but she gave no other overt reaction. "I've been wrong before…" she shrugged.

"I can understand that you probably are not bearing any good feelings towards me," Robertson said to Sam, wincing as he heard the sounds of more things breaking outside as Alex vented his anger. "But murdering me won't help you and your husband. The House Guard threw us out of Portus Illuminatus three days ago and allowed the Illuminatus to escape with your son, but we've pushed them into the western outskirts of the city. The Guardsmen in the Parthenon surrendered a few hours ago. They were…taken care of, but the House Guardsmen in the western outskirts are fighting to the last man. I was considering having-"

As Colonel Robertson continued to speak to Sam, Robertson's personal COM unit squawked and a voice issued forth, sullied slightly by the static, but still audible. "Camp Geronimo, Camp Geronimo, this is Colonel McChristie; come in, over!"

Robertson grabbed his COM and promptly answered it. "This is Colonel Robertson; what can I do for you?"

"Lionel! Good; you're the one I wanted to speak with," McChristie's reply was. "We're moving to capture the prison in the western outskirts. According to a House Guardsman who we captured at the Parthenon, there's a person of high interest imprisoned there."

Robertson frowned, instantly interested. "Explain," the Special Operations Commander said to his counterpart in the army.

"I don't know," McChristie's response was. "The House Guardsman claimed that he had personally transported this individual to the west prison a month ago and incarcerated him there, acting on the orders of the Illuminatus. According to this man, that prisoner was set to be disposed of in a few days time…get down here, Lionel. I want you to be here when we find this prisoner."

"On my way," Robertson answered. "I'll be bringing some help along with me. See you in a few minutes, Robertson out."

With that, the Spec Ops commander killed the channel and got to his feet. "Well, it looks like your husband will get the chance to truly vent his anger," he said to Sam as he walked over to a man operating one of the tactical stations which filled the room, making sure a pelican could be prepped to take them into the city.

"Looks like we're taking a field trip, then," Gerald murmured, getting to his feet as well.

Alex chose that moment to walk back into the room. His face was red and his knuckles bloodied, but he was otherwise unchanged. "Where were we?" the blue-eyed Spartan asked as if he had never left.

"Where's your sniper rifle?" Sam asked her husband.

Alex shook the duffel bag he was wearing on his shoulder. "In here, why?"

"Prep it; you're going to need it," Sam stated, standing up and leading the way out the door.

"With help from both of you, taking the prison should be a cakewalk," Robertson said.

"Whoa, slow down; what are we doing here?" Alex said, following Robertson, Gerald, and Sam out the door as he spoke.

"This way," Robertson gestured to a pelican several hundred yards away from the operations building. "The House Guard are still putting up pockets of resistance in the western outskirts area."

Gerald was the first to climb into the indicated pelican. He went straight into the cockpit and fired up the engines, prepping the dropship for fight.

"We have a prison in that area which the House Guard still holds," Robertson continued to explain. "It's the only one in the city; crime here is relatively low, but no society is perfect. There is a man imprisoned in that facility who knew enough to make the Illuminatus put him away where the sun doesn't shine."

"Does he know where my son is?"

Robertson could only shrug. "It's likely," was all he would say.

As Gerald took the pelican up into the air, moving off towards Portus Illuminatus, Alex dropped his duffel bag down onto the ground. "Only one way to find out," he said, unzipping the duffel bag and taking out the various pieces of his sniper rifle.

Colonel Robertson watched as Alex pulled out the scope—the last piece of his rifle. He watched in wonder as the Spartan assembled his weapon. Alex's hands were almost a blur. Less than four seconds later, he held a complete, six feet-long SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle. The blue-eyed Spartan then proceeded to strip down the weapon and make a few minute adjustments before reassembling it into its complete state. The whole thing took no more than ten seconds.

"You've done that quite a few times," Robertson observed.

"Too many," Alex muttered, attaching a leather strap to the sniper rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. He found himself missing his armor, where all he had to do was put his weapon on the magnetic clamp on his back to hold it in place instead of bothering with a strap.

"Were coming up on Portus Illuminatus!" Gerald called out from the cockpit. "ETA to target location: two minutes!"

Sam grabbed the duffel bag next and took out the BR55 battle rifle which she had been using ever since her arrival on Nemesis III two months ago, at the very end of August. She gave it a quick inspection and slid a magazine into the chamber, loading it.

The landscape of rolling green hills and the thick carpet of trees which covered the land at the very base of Mount Mazama was replaced by the half modern, half antiquated metropolis of Portus Illuminatus. Teams of civilians could be seen putting out fires and beginning to repair the damage caused by the brief battle fought between the House Guard and the Illuminati military.

In the western outskirts of the city, there were still explosions and flashes of weaponsfire, clearly showing that the battle was not yet over. The House Guardsmen still had a few pockets of resistance left and they were defending them like rabid animals. The largest pocket, from what Alex and Sam could tell, was centered around a large, three-story building made of gray and black bricks. The barred and reinforced windows made it all too apparent that the building was the prison which Robertson had been referring to.

"Does your military have artillery or armor?" Alex asked, curious as to why he saw none of either group participating in the battle below.

"Of course they do," Colonel Robertson answered. "But to use them would destroy our city, which we cannot afford to do. Finding resources out here to rebuild is hard enough to fix the damage already done, let alone rebuilding entire sections of the city. Air support cannot be used for that same reason. This fight falls to the infantry and Special Operations. I have several of my Spec Ops teams fighting to take several of the other smaller pockets of conflict, but this main one at the prison there is the primary target for us all. With your help, it should fall soon."

"I've got an L-Zed; putting her down!" Gerald called out from the cockpit. Alex and Sam got to their feet and stood at the open rear of the dropship as Gerald set them down in the middle of an intersection half a kilometer away from the prison. The Watchman killed the engine and moved to step out, but Robertson stopped him, telling him that the dropship, because it was already here, would probably be used to transport wounded back to the hospital closer to the center of the city.

At the behest of Colonel Robertson, Alex and Sam disembarked and sprinted towards the prison, covering the distance in less than a minute. They found Colonel McChristie in the front reception room of the building adjacent to the prison, which appeared to be some sort of telephone service place.

Colonel McChristie, a shorter, wiry man with a scalp as bald and shiny as the convex side of a spoon, was speaking with a few majors who appeared to be battalion commanders. He caught sight of Alex and Sam and quickly dismissed the battalion commanders, who dispersed, moving off to rejoin their units.

"Lionel Robertson just briefed me over the COM about you two a few minutes ago," McChristie said, snapping the Spartans a quick salute. "Never thought I'd live to see the legendary Spartans of the UNSC; we've heard a lot about you and your ilk, even in the Magistarium. If half of what they say about you is true, then I have just been handed one hell of a silver bullet against those House Guard bastards in the prison."

"Just point and we'll go, sir," Alex said, somewhat surprised at how easily military doctrine and behavior flowed back into him in the presence of a superior officer.

McChristie's mouth curved in a slight grin. "I have no real briefing to give you, other than 'give 'em hell'. The entrance to the prison is about to be breached. I want you to go in with the advance party. Listen closely," the army colonel leaned in so that there was no possible way for his next words to be misunderstood. "We have intel on a prisoner in the facility who is of high importance to us. It is likely that you will not encounter him, but even so; watch your fire. His death would be extremely detrimental to us. That is all, you are dismissed."

Alex and Sam returned the colonel's salute and walked straight out of the building.

The prison was not directly across the street. The western outskirts of Portus Illuminatus were not the closed-in, densely packed urban streets which were found deeper in the city. Instead, the buildings were much more spaced out, not quite like suburbs, but close. The prison was situated in the middle of a plot of ground several kilometers across, surrounded by a high barbed-wire fence with guard towers placed at regular intervals around the perimeter. Sections of that fence were flattened now, and the grounds surrounding the prison were torn up by dozens of holes and craters. They were now occupied by at least a regiment of Illuminati soldiers, all of them forming a secure perimeter around the prison to prevent any possible escape attempt by the House Guardsmen who were occupying the jail.

Sam and Alex arrived at the scene just in time to see a pair of thirteen-year-olds dressed completely in black—one a black-haired boy and the other a girl with shoulder-length blond hair—sprint away from the prison's main entrance. A minute later, there was a large explosion and the entrance was disintegrated. A hail of weaponsfire sailed out through the gaping hole where the entrance used to be. A couple of unlucky soldiers who were in the wrong place at the wrong time were hit, but there were no other casualties.

The two young teenagers who had set the explosives lobbed stun grenades through the entrance and into the grounds beyond. After they went off and the weaponsfire ceased, those two teens were the first to charge into the prison grounds, followed by two squads of Illuminati soldiers.

"Did you see that, too?" Alex said to his wife as they sprinted through the Illuminati positions towards the blown-out entrance of the prison. The soldiers clad in butternut-colored fatigues gave them odd looks as they went past. Alex could understand their confusion; to them, the two Spartans looked like two normal civilians with guns.

"Yeah," Sam sounded at odd ends as well. "Robin must not have been the only child they had fighting for them," she said with distaste.

An Illuminati officer tried to stop them at the entrance to the prison, but Alex and Sam simply brushed right past the man. He probably got confirmation from Colonel McChristie soon after, through Sam and Alex were not there to see it happen.

The front entrance to the prison led straight into a large expanse of dusty earth; the prison grounds which the inmates could wander around during allotted times during the day when they were not either in their cells, doing their respective daily tasks, or eating. Right now, it was House Guardsmen and Illuminati soldiers, not inmates, who occupied the grounds.

The House Guardsmen too close to the front entrance had been incapacitated by the stun grenades. The ones further away had been dazed, but their temporary distraction had cost them. The Illuminati soldiers knocked them down and either killed or disarmed them; it all depended on the mood of the Illuminati soldier doing the deed and whether or not the downed House Guardsman decided to go for his weapon again.

The House Guardsmen who were far enough away to be unaffected by the stun grenades either retreated into the actual prison or stood their ground. The ones who stood their ground died, every one of them.

Alex and Sam strode into the grounds just as the last few House Guardsmen were being mopped up. Alex gave a low grunt at that; venting his anger on a thick metal door in Camp Geronimo was better than nothing, but he had been looking forward to killing a few traitors. He eyed the Illuminati soldiers with a newfound respect; they had just demonstrated that they were by no means incompetent at what they did. If they fought this well _all_ the time…well, Alex could see how they might topple the Magistarium while the oppressive regime's armies were away attacking the UNSC.

The two Spartans headed across the grounds towards the actual prison block where the cells were housed. An Illuminati officer—a major—was also present on the grounds, directing the soldiers. More Illuminati forces poured in through the front gate. The major sent a portion to secure the bathhouses and shower rooms, another to secure the rooftops, and the rest to wheel around the prison block to cut off any possible escape routes. The two squads of soldiers and the two teens in black would be storming the prison block with another platoon in reserve.

Alex and Sam brushed past the major and joined the twenty or so soldiers and the two thirteen-year-olds at the entrance to the prison block.

"Who the hell might you be?" one of the squad leaders, a grizzled staff sergeant, said to the two Spartans as they approached.

"Two very angry parents, now shut the hell up and do your job so we can do ours," Sam answered brusquely, hefting her battle rifle, daring the soldier to challenge her.

The staff sergeant only shrugged. "Officers wouldn't've let you here if you were really civilians. What are you, Spec Ops?"

Sam nodded.

"You're not Spec Ops; _we're_ Spec Ops and _we've_ never seen you before," that was the black-haired thirteen-year-old boy. He had a higher voice and a light Irish accent.

"Did I ever say we were _Illuminati_ Spec Ops?" Sam retorted.

Before the boy could reply, everyone's personal COM units crackled to life and a voice—Alex recognized it as that of the major on the grounds—ordered all teams to proceed with their attacks as planned.

"Step aside," the Irish-accented boy said to Sam, Alex, and the staff sergeant, pulling a pair of charges out of his jacket pocket. The staff sergeant complied and stood with his squad, but the two Spartans had other plans.

"We'll save you the trouble," Alex said. "Get ready to breach."

"How?" the staff sergeant asked, incredulous. "That door is made of reinforced steel; the only way to breach is with explosives."

"Incorrect," Sam replied. "Get ready to breach."

The staff sergeant exchanged glances with the two youth operatives, who shrugged and gestured for him to comply.

Shouts and weaponsfire were heard from elsewhere in the prison compound as the other teams attacked the bathhouses and the rooftops.

"Breaching on my mark," Sam said, taking a step back from the door, waiting to make sure that everyone was ready. She checked her battle rifle one last time, making sure that it was loaded and ready. She thumbed the safety and flicked it off. That would have been embarrassing; charging head down into the block, raising your weapon, and firing...only to have it click on you.

Sam laced her fingers and stretched them out, listening to the rippling pops of the cracking joints. She tightened her grip on her battle rifle and said in a sharp voice, "Mark."

Sam leaped at the door and crumpled it with a powerful kick. The reinforced steel was enough to jar her leg for a brief moment, but she recovered just as quickly.

The House Guardsmen on the other side of the door had been expecting an explosion to herald the opening of the door; they were surprised when the door caved in and actually flew back into them, knocking out two men and badly bruising another three.

Sam's battle rifle was already firing when she stepped into the prison block. She took out one House Guardsman with a three-round burst as the man drew a bead on her. She quickly acquired a new target and took him out as well.

The other dozen House Guardsmen in the room raised their weapons and opened fire on Sam…only to find that the space which she had just occupied was now empty. She seemed to materialize next to the nearest man. She brought the butt of her rifle slamming into the side of the man's head, caving in his skull in a slight spray of blood, bone, and brain matter.

As the other men reacted to this, Alex and the twenty Illuminati soldiers poured into the room. The fight quickly devolved into close-up hand-to-hand fighting.

Alex moved to finish a nearby House Guardsmen, but in a flash Sam brushed past the man and he fell, his neck snapped like a twig. "Can you leave me at least _one?_" he complained, looking for another target. He still wore his sniper rifle on his back; the front room was too small and cramped to comfortable wield a rifle almost as tall as he was. He had to settle for hand-to-hand combat. He could hold his own in hand-to-hand, but it was truly Sam's world, not his. He was at home behind the scope of a sniper rifle, not up close and personal with his enemy.

One of the Illuminati soldiers was grazed by a bullet, he limped back outside to get his wound dressed by a medic, but the rest were unharmed. Sam must have killed at least half of the men who had been in the room. Alex killed two or three and the rest were killed by the soldiers.

That was just the appetizer. The entrée lay beyond the next door in the cell blocks. The cell blocks comprised of three tiers of cells with catwalks forming bridges spanning the gap in between the two sides. Metal stairways also connected the three tiers to each other, set into the walkways at regular intervals. The block was two hundred yards long, the length of two football fields.

Alex took all of this in as he took a quick peek through the doors. He also saw the dozens of House Guardsmen lining the tiers, waiting for them to come through. "I...uh…think we should let the explosives handle this door. Unless you like having lead inside of you."

Sam gestured for the two youth operatives to set the charges on the door. The staff sergeant moved the Illuminati soldiers back to a safe distance.

"Do it," the blond-haired thirteen-year-old said, adjusting her grip on the silenced berretta which she wielded.

The Irish boy pressed the button on a small, round detonator which he kept in his pocket specifically for the charges. The explosives went off and the doors were blown into the cell blocks.

"Popping smoke!" the staff sergeant barked. At his behest, several soldiers grabbed checkered gray and yellow-colored canisters from their chest straps and pulled the pins, chucking them through the ruins of the door and into the cell blocks. After a few seconds, the smoke pouring out of the canisters spread out and thickened into an opaque cloud..

"Move up!" Sam ordered.

Sam and the two teenagers slipped through the door, followed closely by Alex and the staff sergeant.

"Fan out!" the staff sergeant cried as the House Guardsmen opened fire. "Jamison, Oswald, Puerenski, Lauris, Tajai, Erilos; take the stairs on the right! Everyone else move down the center! Aim fast and shoot faster; they have the high ground!"

Alex moved off to the left and leaped onto the first stairway leading up into the upper tiers. He took the stairs four steps at a time, blowing past the second tier and coming up onto the third and highest level. There were a few men congregated near to the place where the flight of stairs opened up onto the tier. With startled shouts of surprise the men turned and took aim at the blue-eyed Spartan.

Alex pulled a frag grenade from his belt and primed it, hurling it towards the group of House Guardsmen. Two of the men dove away as the grenade detonated. The blast killed one of the men and wounded another two. The two who dove away were unharmed, but dazed. This gave Alex enough time to close the gap before they could aim and fire their weapons.

Unslinging his sniper rifle as he went, Alex thrust a hand palm-up into the nose of one of the men. Normally, that would have broken the nose and caused the man's eyes to tear up, but with a Spartan's strength the nasal part of the skull was actually driven up _into_ the brain. Alex even winced, hearing the sickening crunch which accompanied his blow.

The man crumpled to the floor, motionless.

The other House Guardsman managed to squeeze off a shot, but it missed. Alex took a step towards him and grabbed his gun arm, slamming it against the railing and forcing the man to drop the weapon. The man fumbled at his waist with his free hand.

Alex saw the gleam of steel before the man even thrust his knife forward. Rather than sidestep or try to block the blow, Alex simply tipped the man over the rail and pushed. The House Guardsman screamed all the way down until he landed on his neck at an impossible angle.

The blue-eyed Spartan turned his attention to the two wounded men and, with softer blows to the backs of their heads, knocked them out. Sniper rifle in hand, Alex began to move off down the tier, moving past the jail cells. Several of the cells were occupied by the inmates of the prison. Most kept silent, desiring only not to be shot. One asked Alex if he could open the cell door, but shrank back from the glare the Spartan gave him.

Alex could see the two youth operatives out of the corner of his eye clearing out the third tier on the other side of the block. As he reached the halfway point, weaponsfire from the remaining House Guardsmen really began to pick up.

There was a sudden shout and a House Guardsman leaped out of the cell in front of Alex, brandishing a knife. He sprang towards the blue-eyed Spartan, but Alex swiftly raised his sniper rifle to chest-level and loosed off a shot without bothering to aim through the scope. The round tore through the House Guardsman's skull and the man pitched forward, a look of shock still frozen on his face in death.

With that last man taken care of, Alex took a knee and aimed his sniper rifle down to the fight below. He was careful of the targets he picked; not hitting Illuminati soldiers would be very nice. Three Illuminati soldiers had been killed already and another six were wounded, including the staff sergeant. They had been carried outside to be tended to. Many of the House Guardsmen were dead, but a few were still firing away from the other end of the block while dozen or so still remained holed up in the warden's office.

Alex centered his crosshairs on a House Guardsman about to empty a clip into a beleaguered Illuminati soldier's back and squeezed the trigger. The sniper rifle gave out a sharp _**crack**_ which echoed throughout the room. The targeted individual was thrown backwards into the wall and slid down to the floor, leaving a streak of red behind him.

Alex readjusted his aim and took out two more House Guardsmen in similar fashion. As he moved to take out the last, the man finally dropped his rifle and put his hands in the air. "Aight, aight, I surrender…" the man muttered, grimacing as if saying the words caused him physical pain.

One of the youth operatives—the girl with blond hair—sidled up in front of the man and quickly patted him down, checking for any grenades or explosives. Finding none, she then pressed her berretta pistol to the man's forehead and squeezed the trigger. The silenced pistol coughed as it spat the bullet out right into the House Guardsman's brain. The man was dead before he knew what hit him.

Alex cocked an eyebrow in surprise. It reminded him of something he would have done during the time when he thought his son was dead. He would have felt like doing it _now_, come to think of it; those House Guardsmen were the ones who kidnapped Robin _again_, according to Colonel Robertson.

The dozen of House Guardsmen holed up in the warden's office clearly had not thought their situation through. With one stun grenade, all twelve of them in that smaller room were incapacitated for several seconds. By the time they could raise their weapons, the Illuminati soldiers were already pouring into the room and shooting them full of lead.

The two survivors of that room were the two who were actually knocked out by the stun grenade when it went off and were therefore undistinguishable from the corpses of their compatriots during the firefight.

"The area has been secured," Sam said to the next-highest-ranking Illuminati soldier, an ordinary three-striper who was in charge of the other squad of Illuminati. "Call it in."

The sergeant did, reporting to the major who had been coordinating the assault from the grounds outside. No doubt those orders would be relayed to Colonel McChristie and General Sykes.

As Sam and Alex listened, similar reports came in from the other units as well. The unit on the rooftop reported success, as did the unit in the bathhouses.

Alex clambered down the stairs from his impromptu sniper spot, sitting down on the floor and leaning back on the bars of one of the unoccupied cells. He let out a weary breath and relaxed. The Illuminati soldiers all gave him respectful nods as they filed past and out of the block. Sam sat down next to him, but the two youth operatives sat down opposite them, strange looks on their faces.

"So," Alex broke the silence. "What're your stories? Why are normal thirteen-year-old children playing with guns?"

"Playing with guns?" the girl repeated, his voice growing hard. "Did you really just play that card?"

"You play with them very, _very_ well, as do we all; don't get me wrong," Alex assured the girl. "But that does not answer my question."

The black-haired boy with the accent chuckled quietly. "We are not what you would call 'normal'."

"Really?" Sam asked.

"Can you do this?" Alex reached behind him, grasping one of the metal bars of the cell behind him, and effortlessly bent it into a V shape.

"Well…no…" the boy mumbled reluctantly, knowing that he had lost that argument.

"If you can't do that, you're pretty damn normal to me," Alex declared.

"You mentioned being 'angry parents' outside," the girl said to Sam. "I've honestly never seen you before. Not at Spec Ops HQ, not in Camp Geronimo, not in the city. You're not Illuminati. And you," she turned to Alex. "You look like someone I knew. He always said his parents would come and find him one day, even if it took years."

"Yeah…" the black-haired boy nodded. "Yeah…I can see it too…you have-"

"His eyes, I know," Alex rolled his own harsh, electric-blue eyes. "You have _no_ idea how many times I've heard that these past few days…"

"You knew our son?" Sam asked.

The boy nodded. "We fought alongside him too, on three occasions. He was a pretty damn brave kid…"

"Seeing him shot was…" the girl searched for the right words, but none came. They didn't need to, though; everyone knew what she meant.

"What are your names?" Sam asked next.

The boy and the girl introduced themselves as Blaze and Jess respectively. They explained to the Ambroses about the youth subdivision of Special Operations. They then spoke of Robin, telling his parents about what he had done during his time with the Illuminati. Their stories were full of laugher for the most part.

"Wait, hold it!" Sam exclaimed in the middle of one of those stories. "My son has a _tattoo?!_ Who's idea was this?!"

"Doesn't really make a difference; he's gone, isn't he?" the girl—Jess—grumbled.

"I noticed you were in a particularly less-than-delightful mood during the firefight," Alex observed. "You executed a surrendering man. Why?"

"It's that man and all of his House Guard friends who attacked us and took Robin—your son away," Jess spat, her voice almost quaking with anger as she spoke. "They don't deserve quick deaths from bullets, let alone the right to surrender."

As she spoke Blaze—the Irish-accented boy—discreetly pointed to her and formed a heart with his fingers. Alex and Sam noticed that, though Jess didn't. Alex put his thumb and forefinger in an almost-complete circle. _A little?_

Blaze stifled a laugh and mimicked the gesture, but spread his thumb and forefinger out and away from each other. _A lot._

Alex smirked, memories of his old relationship with Sam on Onyx flashing through his head. "Now what does that remind me of?" he murmured to his wife.

Before Sam could answer, an Illuminati lieutenant strode into the cell block with at least a platoon of soldiers behind him. The lieutenant gave an order and the men set about clearing away the bodies. The officer then approached the foursome sitting on the ground, nodding to the youth operatives and turning his attention to Alex and Sam, saying, "Sir, Ma'am, your presence has been requested by Colonel Robertson in the bathhouses."

Sam and Alex followed the officer outside of the prison block, across the grounds, and into the shower complex. They were led down a hallway and into one of the large, rectangular shower rooms where the inmates would bathe themselves every night. Now, the showers were occupied by a platoon of Illuminati infantry who had no interest in cleaning themselves at the moment.

Colonel Robertson was waiting for Sam and Alex in the shower room the lieutenant led them to. He gave them a nod and turned to another man, who was behind held by two Illuminati soldiers. "This is them," he said to the man before turning back to the Ambroses. "He kept on saying he wanted to see Robin Ambrose," the Spec Ops commander explained. "Well, seeing as it has to do with your son, I think you should-"

Robertson got to say nothing more because at that moment Alex recognized the man being held by the two soldiers, despite his unhealthy complexion, disheveled appearance, and the facial hair which now covered his chin. His mind flashed back three months to that dark, rainy night in his home in Riverside. Waking up to the sound of a creak downstairs, getting up out of bed, slipping into the hallway, opening his son's bedroom door…

The man who had been holding his son unconscious in his arms. The clear leader of the team of people who had kidnapped his son. The man who he was looking at right now.

Deputy Director Liam Cathal O'Riley.

Alex bared his teeth and moved forward with great strides. He grabbed the former Deputy Director of Shade Branch and tore him away from the soldiers, walking him across the shower room and slamming him up against the wall, offirtlessly holding him aloft with one hand. "For three months I've hunted you," Alex hissed. "Three long, wasted months. I've left a trail of death to get here, to this moment. You took my son away from me. His blood is on _your_ hands. You imprisoned him in that…that _place_ in the Meillan Region…you took him away. Now he is gone once more, and I don't even know where or how to start looking for him. This is all because of _you_."

Alex drew out his combat knife and pressed it to O'Riley's throat.

"Hey!" Colonel Robertson moved towards Alex along with several soldiers, but Sam stopped them.

"Not a good idea," she said.

O'Riley tried to say something, but with the knife against his throat the words were gibberish.

Alex went on. "He was tortured in that place for a week. He then escaped and was pulled into a fighting unit and was _shot,_ and you know why? Because none of this would have happened if he wasn't kidnapped in the first place by _you_."

"You don't understand!" O'Riley managed to choke out.

"_I_ don't understand?" Alex sounded genuinely surprised. "The only thing _I_ don't understand is why I haven't sliced my knife half an inch to the right and turned you into a cold-cut. Prove me wrong."

"The people at the Cruciamentum!" O'Riley exclaimed. "They were going to torture him until his mind broke! However bad he had it, it would have been a _lot_ worse if I hadn't intervened! _I_ set the charges in the Curciamentum, _I_ caused the explosion, _I_ destroyed the whole place! It was the explosion which allowed your son to escape!"

"He's right," Colonel Robertson interjected. "Gerald said that the explosion was what allowed my youth operative and your son to escape without being caught by the guards."

Alex's grip did not loosen nor did his expression change. But his grip did not tighten either. "Okay, suppose I believe you. That doesn't change the fact that you are the cause of all of our sufferings. You may well have ruined my family forever. Anything that happens to Robin in the future is on _you_. Give me a good reason why I shouldn't make the world a better place and get rid of you here and now."

"Because…" O'Riley had a small coughing fit as he spoke, but he recovered after a few seconds. "Because murdering me would satisfy your vengeance, but it will never bring you peace. Quite the contrary; it will change you. You will be left broken and aimless; your retribution complete and your vengeance fulfilled, but your hatred and anger still present, festering within you like a pit of embers which will never be extinguished. That, and it would also not be in your best interests at this moment."

"Explain."

"I don't know where your son is," O'Riley said, but as Alex began to press his blade into his throat the former deputy director hastily added, "But I know where he is eventually _going_ to be."

"And where, pray tell, might that be?" Alex pressed on, unrelenting.

"The place where the Magistarium's Main Invasion force will strike."

"Where!"

O'Riley blinked twice. "Sigma Octanus IV."


	46. Chapter 45: Loose Ends and Agendas

Chapter Forty-Five: Loose Ends and Agendas

**2241 Hours, November 3, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Nemesis III, Omicron Laurentian System**

**Tethys City, Tethys Region, Terra Firma**

The Director of Shade Branch of Special Operations had a lot on his mind. Ever since the debacle at Portus Illuminatus, he had been impatient, eager to press on with his plans. He had waited a long time to kidnap Robin Ambrose and bring him into the Magistarium. He had waited even longer to ensure that he reached the Illuminati. He had waited longer still after that for the opportunity to snatch the twelve-year-old out from under the separatists' noses.

The Director was still extremely irked that the Paladins he had stationed at the factory in the Andorra Region had failed to capture the Ambrose child as he had ordered. That failure had set him back weeks, forcing the Director to take matters into his own hands.

The Director's cover as the Illuminatus had been blown as a result, but the only one who knew of his identity as the Illuminatus was currently being held in a force cage in the cargo bay of his personal prowler, which had been recovered from the wreckage of Farseer Epsilon months ago.

The Director was watching his prisoner through a live camera feed on the bridge of the prowler. The twelve-year-old had finally given up fighting against the force cage's restraints after hours of struggling and screaming. He was asleep now, or if he was awake then he was very still. Conserving his energy, most likely.

"Sir, we're arriving at the Citadel now," the helmsman said.

The Director glanced up at the viewscreen. Sure enough, the huge, towering structure of the Citadel—the central government building in Tethys City—appeared out of the misty darkness of the rainy autumn night. The Director activated the ship's COM system, contacting the Citadel. "Tethys Citadel, this is Director Culwynn requesting permission to dock, over."

There were a few moments of silence as the men of Citadel docking control processed his request. "Director Culwynn, please transmit your authentication codes, over." When the Director complied, the man on the other end of the COM then said, "You have no scheduled appointments or meetings tonight, Director; what is your purpose here?"

"I must speak with High Chancellor Delmar immediately," the Director responded. "What I must talk to him about is classified."

As the helmsman brought the prowler into the Citadel's docking bay, the operator on the other end sounded unconvinced. "I will need verbal confirmation from the High Chancellor himself if what you say is true."

"What is your name?" the Director asked sharply.

"Sir?"

"I asked for your name," the Director repeated himself. "I want to make sure the High Chancellor knows who is responsible for obstructing the arrival of intelligence about the Illuminati, vital to the Magistarium as a whole. You know as well as I do that he does not wish to be contacted during the night hours; if you allow me in, I'll save you the trouble."

The operator on the other end was silent for a few seconds, weighing the pros and cons. The Director was right; the High Chancellor hated being called upon during the night when he was seeing to Magisterial affairs. People who violated this sometimes ended up losing their jobs or much more, depending on the High Chancellor's mood. If the Director was willing to take the fall…

"Alright, you have clearance to dock," the operator gave in. "Just keep this quiet, okay?"

"Deal," the Director replied, killing the channel as the helmsman brought the prowler into the docking bay, carefully avoiding the other dropships already in the space, and landed it. The Director rose from his seat and left the bridge, walking through the corridors until he reached the airlock.

Though the airlock was unnecessary in this location, it was still the primary method of entry/exit for the prowler. The Director opened the inner door and sealed it behind himself, turning around and opening the outer door. He stepped through and walked down the ramp which had extended to the floor ten meters below.

Men and women—uniformed and civilian—were making their way throughout the docking bay, climbing off ships or boarding them. The Director strode through the small crowd, making his way straight to the doors which led deeper into the Citadel. He quickly flashed the guards his ID card. The guards took a hasty step back and practically invited him to go through.

The Director allowed himself a small grin; being the head of a technically non-existent branch of Special Operations granted him many privileges, including the ability to make low-level guards nearly piss their pants at the sight of him.

The Director walked through the seemingly-endless corridors of the Citadel, passing offices, meeting rooms, and government affairs chambers as he walked. Finally, he reached a lift which would be able to take him straight up to the council chamber where the High Chancellor and the five-man ruling Magistrate usually convened. That was where the High Chancellor could be found; in his private office behind the council chamber.

The Director walked straight into the lift. "Council Chamber," he stated clearly, allowing the voice-activated recognition system to activate the lift and send it on an ascent straight up through the government building.

The lift came to a stop a minute later, a slight lurch preceding the doors hissing open. The Director walked out of the lift and into the long, paneled corridor which led straight down to a large set of double-doors which were the entrance into the council chamber. Six Paladins stood guard in front of the doors.

Their leader held up a hand and stopped the Director. "We have been notified of your arrival by the docking personnel, sir," the Paladin said, his face unreadable behind the opaque silver faceplate of his helmet. "However, we must search you before you proceed. I'm sure you understand."

"Indeed," the Director agreed, approving of their security. He reached into his jacket and drew out his magnum revolver sidearm. He twirled it around and presented it to the Paladin grip-first. "I suppose you'll want to keep this for the time being."

"Yes, sir," the Paladin took the sidearm. "You shall receive it again on your way out." The Paladin then proceeded to thoroughly pat the Director down, frisking him for anything else which could be used as a weapon. The only thing he found was a small, reinforced metal cylinder. It was not a weapon, however; it was supposed to be an intelligence capsule, designed to contain top-secret information for transportation. He had seen hundreds pass through the council chamber doors already. "Alright, you're clean. Proceed."

The Director thanked the guards and walked through the double doors and into the council chamber beyond. The chamber was presently empty; the magistrate ministers were all at their homes, just like they were supposed to be. The Director walked around the table and headed over to the door to the left. Two more Paladins stood guard outside this door. They gave the Director an x-ray scan with a small device and, when they were content that he had nothing lethal on his person, gave him a quick nod and stood aside to allow him to pass.

The Director walked through this last door and entered the personal office of High Chancellor Delmar. The High Chancellor sat behind his desk, poring over a stack of documents. The graying leader of the Magistarium glanced up sharply, scrutinizing the Director with his cold gray eyes.

"I was contacted by the guards," Delmar said calmly in his gravelly tones. "You know better than any that I do not wish to be disturbed at this time of day, and yet still you came. The guards said that you had vital intelligence concerning the Illuminati. I hope they are correct; if this intelligence turns out to be anything _less_ than information on those anarchists, then heads will roll, especially yours."

The Director took a seat in front of the High Chancellor's desk, not fazed in the slightest. "Sir, ever since Deputy Director O'Riley's…defection-"

"Do not even _mention_ that traitorous wretch's name!" the High Chancellor shouted, his voice becoming suddenly hostile and violent. "That filthy stain of scum, that abhorrent waste of a man; he does not even _deserve_ a name! Mention it one more time in my presence and I will have you assigned to the front lines of the invasion of Sigma Octanus IV, which—as I recall—was _your_ plan."

The Director chose his words more carefully now. "Yes, High Chancellor," he managed to grind out. "I know where the Illuminati are located," the Director began, reaching into his jacket pocket and drawing out the intel cylinder. "I also know where they are going to be in a few days' time."

"And where might that be?" the High Chancellor's interest was piqued. What the Director was saying was that he had discovered the whereabouts of the separatists who had been fighting against the Magistarium for centuries; this was _huge_.

"In a few days' time, they will be marching down the streets of Tethys towards this building, wiping away the opposition of the dregs of the Magisterial Army which have been left behind on this planet for internal security."

"What?" the High Chancellor didn't follow.

"You followed my invasion plan to the letter, High Chancellor; I cannot thank you enough for that," the Director said. "You sent the _entire_ army; _all_ of our armed forces out in the invasion of UNSC space to attack Sigma Octanus IV. What I really must thank you for is that you never once stopped to ask yourself _why_ I would not leave any significant forces behind here to keep things in order on the home front."

The High Chancellor said nothing, trying to make sense of what his subordinate was saying.

"You, High Chancellor, are nothing but a figurehead. Do you know _how_ you came to power all those years ago? You came to power because _I_ ensured that anyone who could oppose you was taken care of. You, High Chancellor, are the one who I recognized as the easiest to…use."

A vein began to make itself prominent in High Chancellor Delmar's temple. "How _dare_ you-"

"Oh come now, High Chancellor, don't sound so surprised," the Director chuckled. As he spoke, he unscrewed the bottom of the intel cylinder, revealing a false bottom with a small, round hole in the center. The Director's voice grew hard and cutting as he continued to speak. "Do you remember who I was thirty years ago? I was the leader of our United Rebel Front forces operating on the UNSC colony-world of Ankh in the Diocletian System. Thirty years ago, all of my men were massacred by the Covenant and do you know why? Because the Magistarium, in all of its infinite wisdom, would not let us pull out of UNSC space. I was one of the few survivors of that massacre, and I promised myself that I would have my revenge on this government. After the last High Chancellor—your predecessor—had his unfortunate 'accident', I ensured that you would be his successor. Now, after all these years, you have implemented my invasion plans."

High Chancellor Delmar was almost speechless with rage. "I will bury you, you hear me? I will _bury_ you!"

"Oh, I do not think so, High Chancellor," the Director mused. He grasped his 'intel cylinder' and twisted it down the middle, hearing the slight pop of the gas inside getting ready to be released. "I'm sure you've had your own agenda this whole time, but I have my plans as well. See, I wish to control the Orion Arm as much as you do…however; the Tirque and the UNSC pose very significant threats to this ideal and, therefore, must be eliminated. This will be made possible by means of having the Ambrose child use our weapon on Hyndareus. You, my dear High Chancellor, are also an obstacle. You have been a hindrance to me for many years. You are brutish; you abused your power and the people whom you rule over, even more so than your predecessors. The only reason I tolerated you was because, in the long run, you would do what I wished, even if you were unaware of the fact. Now, your usefulness has run its course. The Illuminati wish to topple this government, and I am going to make sure that happens. Oh, I'll leave the government structure intact—there would be nothing left to rule if I didn't—but this requires the…removal of the present Magisterial officials. See, with a central figure to rally around, the remnants of the army which stayed behind here would fight much more ferociously to defend their land, but _without_ a central government…well, you get the idea."

The High Chancellor raised an eyebrow, leering at the Director. "What are you going to do, Culwynn? Kill me? Kill the ministers? How? If you have not noticed, you are surrounded by my men and you have no weapon. You have shown me your cards, yet you cannot play them. How do you expect to leave this place alive, I wonder?"

"Who said I have no weapon?" the Director asked innocently, unscrewing the top of the 'intel cylinder', which Delmar was beginning to eye with curiosity. "Your guards are lucky; you will never get the chance to 'reprimand' them for believing me when I told them that this was really an intel canister."

"Bastard! You worthless, scheming, yellow-bellied-"

The Director raised the metal cylinder and aimed the bottom—the side with the small hole in its center—at High Chancellor Delmar's chest. He then gave the pressure-sensitive top of the canister a good thwack.

The zip gun, disguised as an intel cylinder, gave a slight cough as the compressed gas—released by the Director hitting the pressure-sensitive top of the cylinder—propelled the small bullet, contained within, out the hole in the bottom and into High Chancellor Delmar's heart.

The High Chancellor's eyes bulged as the shock of what had just happened registered in his mind. He gave a wheezing sigh as his lungs began to fill with blood. His shirt grew red and began to drip all over the floor. He struggled out of his seat and took a shaky step towards the Director, who sat motionless in his chair, reaching for him with his right hand. He managed to take another step forward before his strength failed him and he collapsed onto the floor, bleeding out.

"Goodbye, High Chancellor," the Director sighed, casually screwing the top and bottom back onto the improvised firearm, making it look like an intel cylinder once more, and slipping it back into his pocket. He got to his feet and walked straight to the door. The High Chancellor gave a final gurgling noise on the ground and rolled onto his back, unmoving.

The Director opened the door and stepped outside. The two paladins standing guard outside had time enough to look inside and register the fact that the High Chancellor was lying dead on the floor before the Director struck.

The Director kneed the first Paladin in the stomach and quickly grabbed his stun baton. Without any time to use it properly, the Director brought it clubbing down onto the head of the second Paladin, knocking him out cold. The first Paladin, still recovering from having the wind knocked out of him, lunged at the Director, but the Director calmly sidestepped, hooking the first Paladin around the throat and clotheslining him. As the Paladin fell on his back, the Director delivered a swift kick to his head, knocking him out cold as well.

The whole thing had been relatively silent, as the six guards outside never barged through the door in response to the scuffle. The Director dusted himself off and walked through the council chamber and up to the double doors, allowing himself a satisfied smile. Elsewhere in Tethys City, he knew that his loyalists in Shade Branch were currently disposing of the Magistrate ministers, the only other central governing power under the High Chancellor which could serve to unify the remnants of the army.

Everything was going to plan flawlessly.

The Director pushed open the council chamber doors and quickly closed them behind himself. He thanked the six Paladins standing guard outside and retrieved his magnum revolver sidearm from the head of the guard before moving off down the corridor and into the lift.

He did not relax as the doors slid shut, but he was not panicking either. If the Paladins discovered what he had done before he reached his ship, he was more than capable of defending himself. To add to that factor, he had also been careful to plant many men personally loyal to him in the Citadel this particular night. If anything went awry, he had a backup plan.

As things turned out, nothing did go awry that night. The Director walked out of the lift when it reached its destination and proceeded straight through the corridors and into the docking bay. He gave the guards at the entrance of the docking bay a discreet nod. They returned the gesture and continued going about their daily business. There was no longer anything more for them to worry about.

The Director walked straight over to his prowler and climbed up the boarding ramp and into the airlock, retracting the ramp as he walked onto his ship. He sealed the outer airlock door in order to open the inner one to gain access to the rest of the ship. He went straight up to the bridge.

"It's done. Get us out of here," he said to the helmsman.

"Aye, sir. Can't say I'm sad to leave," the helmsman replied. He got onto the COM with engineering and waited for the ship to power up before lifting off and guiding the prowler out of the docking bay of the Citadel. He activated the prowler's main drive and ascended through the rain clouds which covered Tethys City and into the night sky.

"Plot a course to Hyndareus," the Director ordered once they reached orbit. "Time to put our prisoner to good use."

The helmsman complied. There was a slight rushing sound as the prowler entered slipstream space, then the usual silence. The viewscreen went dark, the ship's sensors having nothing in the slipstream which they could project onto a screen.

The Director remained on the bridge for a few more minutes before he excused himself and left, satisfied that everything was working normally. He headed towards his quarters, but changed his mind along the way and turned down the service corridor which led to the cargo bay.

The cargo bay was a large space, filled with supplies, mechanical and maintenance parts, and stealthed nuclear HORNET mines which, during a naval battle, could be laid out in a minefield and detonated when unsuspecting enemy vessels wandered into their midst. At least that's what the UNSC designed them for, and the Magistarium was only too happy to copy that.

Lining one corner of the cargo bay were a handful of force cages; wonderful pieces of technology created from reverse-engineered Forerunner mechanisms and stolen from the UNSC. Quite simply, they concentrated energy particles into an impenetrable, albeit invisible, cylindrical force field, completely imprisoning the occupant in a fool-proof, inescapable cage.

Only one of these force cages was active, its invisible field audibly humming.

The Director approached the active force cage and pulled up a crate, sitting down in front of it.

"Have you come to gloat?" the boy imprisoned in the cage asked, his voice raspy from disuse. He hadn't spoken for the last two days.

"Gloat?" the Director cocked an eyebrow. "Well…well, the thought _did_ cross my mind, now that you mention it, but no. Why should I gloat to you when you are the key to my plans? You are probably the one person I cannot gloat to."

"Wonderful; let me out, then."

"Let you out?" the Director chuckled. He shook his head, scratching his neck. "You possess superhuman strength _and_ you personally hate me. Apt, considering I _am_ responsible for the deaths of your friends back in Portus Illuminatus. Regrettable, but necessary. No, releasing you would be very unwise."

"Well, that's _one_ thing we can agree on." Robin Ambrose sat up and sat cross-legged in the middle of the force cage, fixing his gaze on his captor.

The Director looked back into the twelve-year-old's eyes. Large eyes, with harsh electric-blue colored irises. The Director could almost feel the hatred pulsing within them. The boy would have been a good actor had it not been necessary to kidnap him for use in the invasion.

"You know," the Director said to Robin, "I can see how you could make someone like Liam O'Riley grow a conscience."

"Fat lot of good that did me…" Robin muttered. He _did_ have a point.

The Director chuckled again. "You owe a lot to that man. He is the one who blew up the Cruciamentum and allowed you to escape. He is the one who sabotaged the search parties so that they would not find you until you were safely hidden away in the Illuminati safehouse in the South Mire Ghetto. Shame; he had such potential as Deputy Director. He is most likely dead by now. But the point is, I can see how you could make him grow a conscience. You can play off of people's emotions; make them feel guilty, remorseful. Of course, for this to work, that person must be a decent person at heart, something which I obviously am not."

Robin's only response was an acidic glare.

"A new age of prosperity and unity is just about to crest over the horizon," the Director said to the twelve-year-old. "You, my young friend, are going to make that new age possible. Come now, you should feel-"

"What? Happy?" Robin Ambrose interrupted. "Are you _seriously_ going to say 'happy'? Satisfied? Contented? Excited? 'Happy' to be kidnapped, taken from my home and family? 'Happy' to know that I'm never going to be let go?"

"Well, those are somewhat negative aspects, yes," the Director agreed. "But in the long-run, your sacrifice will certainly pay off…even if you'll never see it."

With a snarl, Robin sprang to his feet and lunged at the Director, propelled by anger rather than common sense. The force field flared into a visible red as Robin made physical contact with it, sending a shock through the twelve-year-old's body. Robin was thrown back onto the floor of his cage.

"Well, that was certainly amusing," the Director observed.

Robin next tried spitting at the Director, but the force field vaporized the spittle before it could reach him.

"Save your energy; you'll need it," the Director advised. He got to his feet and started to leave, but still felt like he should say something more to his prisoner. "I don't know if it will make you feel any better—I doubt it, actually—but your parents did not sit idle when you were kidnapped three months ago. They've actually been on this planet for as long as you have, searching for you. They arrived in Portus Illuminatus a few days after we left. Shame; I never got the chance to properly introduce myself. Just thought that you should know."

Robin's eyes widened and glistened a bit at the mention of his parents. A lump rose in the twelve-year-old's throat, but he quickly swallowed it. Crying wouldn't help him. Instead he asked the Director, "Did you kill them?"

"Come again?" the Director asked.

"My parents; did you kill them?" Robin repeated himself, sitting back up.

"No, I did not," the Director replied, surprised at the question. He was even more taken aback at Robin's reaction to his answer.

The twelve-year-old did not breathe a sigh of relief. He did not show any hint of deep emotion. Instead, he laughed. He smiled savagely and laughed right in the Director's face. "Mistake," was all the twelve-year-old said, his voice layered with mocking contempt. "_Big_ mistake."

The Director turned on his heel and left, heading for his quarters, Robin Ambrose's laughter and words still echoing through his head.


	47. Chapter 46: Sigma Octanus IV

Chapter Forty-Six: Sigma Octanus IV

**2241 Hours, November 15, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Twelve Days Later)  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC **_**Blood and Iron**_

Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin was still shaking the feeling of the anti-freeze gel which had coated his lungs in the cryo-chamber, preventing them from freezing solid, as he strode onto the bridge of the UNSC _Blood and Iron_.

"Admiral on deck!" Commander Tomlinson, the Macedonian-class fleet carrier's executive officer, barked. The bridge crew rose to their feet and snapped to attention.

Admiral Al-Hassin sighed to himself. This was protocol; _all_ crews had to follow it, but that didn't mean that it didn't get old after a while. "As you were," Al-Hassin nodded to his crew, motioning for them to continue carrying out their duties.

The Admiral was not in the best of moods. The Seventh Fleet was just about to emerge from slipspace into the Sigma Octanus System, pursuing the force of Insurrectionists which had attacked Irivet V. Those Insurrectionists had escaped the Canis Serpentis system when a force of Insurrectionist vessels and prowlers slipped in-system behind one of the other planets in the system, using its magnetic field to mask their arrival. They had then struck at the Seventh Fleet when the bulk of it passed around to the far side of Irivet V in orbit. While the Insurrectionists' heavier vessels kept Al-Hassin's fleet occupied, the Insurrectionist ground forces in Ainsdell had been evac-ed into orbit via dropships and the prowlers.

The whole thing had been organized to the point of extreme precision. Their escape was flawless. Al-Hassin could not help but pay homage to the success of the Insurrectionists, but his respect went only so far. Their success was his failure.

The important fact, the Admiral supposed, was that Irivet V had been protected and Ainsdell had never been taken by the Insurrectionists. For that, he also supposed, and not unreasonably, his career and that of General McCandlish were not compromised. HIGHCOM had ordered Al-Hassin to organize his fleet and pursue the Insurrectionists by following their slipspace wake.

When Al-Hassin and his crew had learned that the Insurrectionists' course led straight to Sigma Octanus IV, the whole thing sounded ridiculous. The Insurrectionists had only been attacking small, out of the way colony worlds. Attacking Irivet V had been their boldest move yet, but Sigma Octanus IV was a whole new ballpark.

Sigma Octanus IV was one of the very scant handful of major UNSC worlds which survived the war with the Covenant. As such, it had become the largest UNSC hub, with the exception of Earth itself. It had also become the de facto military hub; basically the new Reach. Its defenses and armament were nowhere even near to what those of Reach had been; Reach had had centuries to build itself up to the state it had been at before the Covenant glassed it, but Sigma Octanus IV had been the military nexus for only a decade. That's not to say that it was only lightly defended, but its defenses were still nothing compared to what Reach's had been. It had a capable orbital defense grid, but other than that...

"What is our ETA to the Sigma Octanus System?" Admiral Al-Hassin asked as he sat down in the command chair.

"Fifteen minutes, sir," Lieutenant Sorrel, the helmsman, replied.

As the bridge crew bustled about to their stations and prepared to carry out their tasks once the ship dropped out of slipspace, the entrance to the bridge hissed open and none other than General Ian McCandlish, the commander of the First Marine Expeditionary Force, strode in. The bridge crew snapped to attention for the marine general as well, paying respect where it was due.

McCandlish dismissed them with a grateful nod and a salute in return. "Rashid," the north-Englishman greeted Admiral Al-Hassin. "You sent for me?"

"Yes," Admiral Al-Hassin nodded. "HIGHCOM inquired to me about the status of your general staff. Rather than get the answers by snooping or from an informant, I would much rather hear them from you personally."

"I'm touched," McCandlish chuckled. He let out a sigh and scratched the full beard which had grown on the bottom half of his face. The military usually frowned upon facial hair, but McCandlish had politely suggested where HIGHCOM could shove its regulations; he had earned the right to sport a beard.

"Well," the general began, "General Wyvern and his division commanders came through Ainsdell unscathed. Not surprising; I Corps didn't take half the beating II Corps did."

Admiral Al-Hassin nodded knowingly. "How is General Hasegawa? I heard he was hit during the retreat from Firelso Square."

McCandlish grunted darkly at the mention of the retreat from Firelso Square; the result of poor UNSC patrols and the Insurrectionist armor's element of surprise. "Yeah, he stopped a few pieces of shrapnel from an Insurrectionist tank shell. Damn Rebs took us _all_ by surprise that night…" McCandlish shook his head and returned to the topic of conversation. "Hasegawa's doing fine. He's coming out of the med-bay right now; the doctors say he should be fit for duty, as long as he doesn't decide to take on the whole damn Reb army on his own again."

Al-Hassin nodded again, this time approving. "That is good; Hasegawa is a commander we really cannot afford to lose on the ground."

McCandlish continued with his report. "General Morrison, the commander of 5th Division, was killed by the same shell which wounded Hasegawa," McCandlish informed the admiral before the naval commander could get too upbeat. "I've promoted Colonel Natchez, Morrison's adjutant, to Brigadier General. He'll be replacing Morrison. He's a good man and a fine commander; he'll get the job done. He deserves that star; I just wish it were under different circumstances that he received it…"

"And General Armistead? Has he been-"

"Armistead was not hit at all," McCandlish clarified. "Lucky bastard escaped the blast which took out II Corps' two other generals somehow. Most of my divisions are now understrength; that city fighting was simply too costly. We cannot afford to fight another battle in a similar fashion."

"Are your men prepped for battle?" Al-Hassin asked next. "We have…" the admiral checked the time, "…eight minutes until we drop out of slipspace."

McCandlish nodded. "They are prepping as we speak. Don't worry about us; we'll be ready by the time you get us into orbit."

Al-Hassin conversed with General McCandlish for a few more minutes, straightening out a few last-minute logistics with the marine commander before sending him back to his men in the hangar bay. He then returned to his command chair and spent the rest of the time waiting impatiently.

"Sixty seconds to Sigma Octanus IV, sir," Commander Tomlinson called out.

Admiral Al-Hassin jumped back into the fray of action on the bridge. "Bring weapons systems online," Al-Hassin ordered. "Charge up the MACs and ready Archer pods one through twenty. Scipio," the Admiral called out to the ship in general as he spoke the name of the shipboard AI. The smart AI who operated on the _Blood and Iron_ materialized over one of the holo-tables, appearing as his preferred avatar; an ancient Roman centurion in full battle armor. "Scipio, you have the plasma turrets."

"Ah, good," Scipio inclined his head approvingly, speaking in his rich baritone voice. "I do very much enjoy using those weapons."

"What self-respecting military-grade artificial intelligence _wouldn't?_" Al-Hassin chuckled. The admiral let the AI go about his work and activated the COM next to his chair. "Bridge to engineering; what's the status on our engines?"

"Engines are at eighty-seven percent, sir," the voice of Chief Guilliman, the chief of engineering, responded. "We're still getting back on our feet from that hit we took back at Irivet."

Al-Hassin let out a quiet sigh, quiet enough so that no one but him could hear it. When the Insurrectionists had surprised his fleet twelve days ago, an Insurrectionist destroyer had managed to sneak up behind the _Blood and Iron_ and hit her with a shot from its MAC cannon. The shot had hit the _Blood and Iron_ right in her baffles, breaching several of the UNSC Macedonian-class carrier's decks, and coming painfully close to the engines. When Chief Guilliman said that they were still recovering, Al-Hassin believed him. "Eighty-seven percent should be sufficient—it could be a hell of a lot worse. Keep it up down there."

"Aye, sir," Chief Guilliman responded. "Just make sure the _Iron_ doesn't take another hit like that last one!"

"Will do, Chief. Bridge out," Al-Hassin killed the transmission to engineering and returned his attention to the matters close at hand. "Weapons control, what's the status on our cannons?"

"MAC cannons One and Two at full power and ready to fire, sir," Ensign Fitzgerald, the bridge officer manning the weapons station, called out in reply. "Archer pods one through twenty are also ready to fire, as ordered, sir."

"Good," Al-Hassin nodded. "Keep alert, gentlemen; we have no idea what is going to greet us when we drop out of the slipstream. Scipio, talk to me."

"Plasma turrets One through Eight are fully charged and ready to fire, Admiral," the shipboard smart AI promptly replied. His avatar vanished and reappeared over the holo-pad right next to Al-Hassin's command chair. "Waiting for your order, sir."

"Commander Tomlinson; give me our ETA," Al-Hassin turned to his executive officer, who was manning the tactical station.

"Dropping out of slipspace in thirteen seconds, sir," the exec replied. "Lieutenant Commander Pierry and his damage control teams are also standing by, sir."

"Excellent. Hopefully we will never need them," Al-Hassin said, utterly sincere.

The final few seconds slipped by like they were liquid running through cracks, melting together until Commander Tomlinson exclaimed, "Dropping out of slipspace now!" and the spell was broken.

The men down in engineering worked their magic with the ship's translight engine. There was an omnipresent rushing noise as the Macedonian-class fleet carrier returned to normal space, freeing itself from the abnormalities and impossibilities of the slipstream.

Data and images flowed back into the _Blood and Iron's_ systems as its sensors found matter in normal space which could be translated into data. The viewscreen flickered to life, revealing a large green, blue, and white planet with two moons orbiting it. Three more planets were visible behind it in the distance, orbiting around Sigma Octanus, which was blazing away off to the left. Eternal, endless, star-studded black formed the backdrop for the vista.

"Sigma Octanus IV…" Al-Hassin heard Commander Tomlinson murmur. "It's been too long, old friend…"

Al-Hassin understood that; Commander Tomlinson had survived the naval theatre of the Battle of Sigma Octanus IV during the closing years of the Great War. Al-Hassin had not participated in that battle; his ship had been stationed at Reach at the time.

Lieutenant Sorrel took the helm and immediately began to maneuver the _Blood and Iron_ towards Sigma Octanus IV. As Admiral Al-Hassin watched, the hundred-odd ships which made up the rest of the Seventh Fleet slipped in-system. Each individual ship emerged from slipspace into the normal dimension heralded by a bright flash of purplish-white light.

The Seventh Fleet emerged into the Sigma Octanus system spread out and jumbled, compliments of slipspace transfer. The UNSC still had yet to incorporate the superior Sangheili-used slipspace drive into its vessels. For now, they had to rely on the much-improved, albeit still inferior translight engines.

Admiral Al-Hassin activated the FLEETCOM and got into contact with all of the Vice Admirals and Rear Admirals serving under him who commanded the myriad battlegroups of ships which, together, made up the Seventh Fleet. Working in tandem with his subordinate admirals, Al-Hassin reformed and organized his fleet. As the Seventh Fleet neared Elpis, the larger of Sigma Octanus IV's moons, it was back in its tight formation.

Al-Hassin turned to his exec and asked, "Are we getting anything from the Tenth Fleet? We're supposed to link up with them."

Ensign Rush, the communications officer, scanned the broad range of COM channels and shook his head. "I'm picking up a lot of chatter, sir, but none of it is from the Tenth Fleet."

Al-Hassin's brow furrowed in a frown. "How is that possible? HIGHCOM _assured_ me that the Tenth Fleet…" Al-Hassin's voice trailed off as he spoke. Logically, he thought to himself, if the Tenth Fleet was not responding to his fleet's hails, that could only mean one thing.

"Coming around Elpis now, sir," Lieutenant Sorrel reported. Al-Hassin kept a close eye on the viewscreen as Sigma Octanus IV's larger moon moved off to the side, revealing Sigma Octanus IV itself in all its entirety.

Al-Hassin wished it hadn't.

Orbiting over Sigma Octanus IV was a warzone. Brilliant explosions of detonating ships and MAC cannon discharges lit up the darkness of space over Sigma Octanus IV. From what Admiral Al-Hassin could see, a handful of UNSC vessels were fighting a losing battle against an overwhelming force of what appeared to be Insurrectionist capital ships. Orbital defense platforms were also assisting, but the battle was taking place far enough out of range for them to be of any significant impact. A dozen or so of those capital ships turned to intercept the inbound Seventh Fleet.

"Battle stations!" Al-Hassin barked. Commander Tomlinson sounded the general quarters, which would send the entire crew of 1,500 naval personnel on board the _Blood and Iron_ to their respective battle posts.

"Sir, I'm detecting multiple bogeys heading straight for us!" exclaimed Lieutenant Howell from one of the secondary tactical consoles.

Commander Tomlinson immediately established contact with the hangar bays and scrambled the complement of longsword fighter squadrons stationed on the _Blood and Iron_. As the bridge crew watched, a cloud of the smaller fighters streaked away from the fleet carrier and the dozen or so other marathon-class cruisers capable of holding fighter squadrons. The longswords clashed with Insurrectionist fighters about halfway between the advancing Seventh Fleet and the Insurrectionist forces.

While the fighters battled it out, Ensign Rush reported that he was picking up a transmission from one of the UNSC ships fighting over Sigma Octanus IV. Al-Hassin told him to patch it through to the main speakers so that everyone could hear it.

"Any UNSC forces out there, this is Vice Admiral Alonzo of the UNSC _Royal Flush_; come in, over!"

Al-Hassin quickly responded saying, "This is Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin, commander of the Seventh Fleet; we read you loud and clear!"

"Oh, thank God," the vice admiral of the Tenth Fleet sounded audibly relieved. "Admiral Al-Hassin, sir, we need immediate assistance! The Rebs; they slipped in-system behind Sigma Octanus III and used its magnetic field to mask their arrival! We barely had any warning! Admiral Hobart's carrier was destroyed a few hours ago…I think I'm the only flag officer left…"

"Break off your defense, Alonzo," Al-Hassin ordered. "Break off and go to ground; if you stay planetside, then they won't be able to follow you. I'll take things from here."

"I'm issuing the orders to my ships now, sir," Vice Admiral Alonzo's response was. "Sir, the Rebs managed to break through the orbital defense grid on the other side of the planet. They've landed ground forces in western Alsace. Sir, I think they're going to try to take Côte d'Azur. If they do that, they gain control of the orbital defense grid and will be able to orbitally bombard the entire planet."

_That_ was serious.

"Acknowledged, Vice Admiral," Al-Hassin replied. "Go to ground and wait for further orders. Seventh Fleet out," the admiral finished, killing the channel before flipping back to the FLEETCOM. "All vessels, this is Admiral Al-Hassin; we have received intel that the Insurrectionists have landed ground forces which are heading towards Côte d'Azur. These ground forces must be stopped. Our first priority is to get our marines groundside. After we accomplish that, we can focus on fighting the Rebs in space proper. Al-Hassin out."

After Al-Hassin finished his message, he could see the remnants of the Tenth Fleet breaking off and heading into Sigma Octanus IV's atmosphere, heading for the ground, or probably the oceans. The three or four Insurrectionist vessels which attempted to follow were picked off by the orbital defense platforms. The rest of the Insurrectionist ships turned towards the Seventh Fleet.

Three of the Seventh's battlegroups broke off from the rest of the fleet and moved in to engage the Insurrectionists directly while the rest of the fleet made a drive towards the planet with the intention of unloading their marines.

The Insurrectionist ships countered them and formed up between the Seventh and Sigma Octanus IV, not allowing them to pass. Al-Hassin licked his lips and ordered Lieutenant Sorrel to move the carrier in. "What sort of command ship is this if it does not lead a charge?" the admiral asked, speaking to no one in particular.

For the next three hours, the Seventh Fleet pushed the Insurrectionists back away from Sigma Octanus IV towards the sun in the center of the star system. As the Fleet pressed on, each Battlegroup would take turns slipping through the orbital defense grid, allowing the marines on board its respective ships to unload and head planetside.

Finally, only a single line of defense remained between the bulk of the Seventh Fleet and Sigma Octanus IV. Admiral Al-Hassin paused his attack and allowed his fleet to form back up before pressing onwards once more.

As the Seventh Fleet formed up behind the _Blood and Iron,_ Scipio took control of the carrier's three MAC cannons and opened fire, sending three dense depleted uranium slugs barreling into the foremost Insurrectionist ship. The first round mangled the enemy cruiser's hull, but the second and third tore right through. The ship listed heavily, venting atmosphere, until it finally exploded in a brilliant haze of fire which instantly vanished as the vacuum of space deprived it of life.

As the first Insurrectionist ship went up in flames, three smaller ones quickly moved in to take its place.

"Helm, take us back and let the boys behind us deal with them," Al-Hassin ordered Lieutenant Sorrel.

"Aye, sir," Sorrel input the appropriate commands into his console. The _Blood and Iron_ slowed her advance, giving her MAC cannons enough time to charge up.

The _Southern Pride_ and the _Barracuda_, two frigates which Al-Hassin recognized as part of Rear Admiral Eisner's Battlegroup, moved up to relieve the _Blood and Iron_. They slid in front of the _Blood and Iron_ and fired both of their MAC cannons, each shot hitting one of the Insurrectionist destroyers. The third destroyer fired its own MAC cannon in response and dealt the _Barracuda_ damage to its lateral starboard armor.

"Fire Archer pods Three and Five," Al-Hassin ordered. "Let's give our boys some help."

Ensign Fitzgerald at the weapons control station complied, firing a salvo of archer missiles from the two indicated missile pods. The missiles streaked in between the _Southern Pride_ and the _Barracuda_ and slammed into the undamaged Insurrectionist destroyer, breaching its hull in several places.

"Helm, take us forward-" was all Al-Hassin was able to say before he was drowned out by a blinding explosion which blanked out the viewscreen followed up by a shockwave which threw the entire bridge crew to the floor.

The bridge officers all shouted in exclamation and surprise. "What the hell just happened?!" someone yelled.

As the blinding light cleared away from the viewscreen, the bridge crew of the _Blood and Iron_ was able to see similar conflagrations lighting up the Insurrectionist line for several dozen kilometers to either side. A good number of Insurrectionist ships had been reduced to molten slag, and a good number more had taken damage in one form or another.

"Tomlinson, talk to me!" Al-Hassin exclaimed as he pulled himself off the floor and into his command chair.

Commander Tomlinson was frantically working the tactical console. "I'm on it, sir," the exec replied.

"Scipio, status report!" the admiral turned to the shipboard AI next.

The holographic Roman centurion paused for a millisecond as he processed Al-Hassin's request and scanned the ship's systems. "No damage, Admiral," the AI reported. "The blast was out of range."

"Tomlinson?"

"I've got nothing, sir," the exec replied. "Those blasts were definitely from HORNET nuclear mines, though. It must have been one of the Tenth Fleet's prowlers; they would have had ample time to lay a nuclear minefield out here while their fleet was occupied."

"ONI bastards probably don't know what 'danger close' means…" Ensign Rush grumbled.

Al-Hassin did not dwell on the close scrape any longer. He had a complement of marines which needed to be sent groundside; that was his main priority. The rest of the Insurrectionists could be dealt with later.

"Helm, take us in closer to the planet. Tomlinson, contact McCandlish; tell him to get ready to jump ship," the admiral ordered.

The helmsman and the exec said "Aye, sir!" nearly in unison as their orders were doled out.

The next ten minutes went by quickly. A steady stream of pelican and albatross dropships, all bearing vehicles and tanks etc, flew away from the _Blood and Iron_ and from the marathon-class cruisers in the battlegroups who had yet to dump their marines, all of them heading down into the atmosphere of Sigma Octanus IV. Once groundside, they would set up a defensive perimeter around Côte d'Azur to prevent the Insurrectionists from capturing it and disabling the orbital defense grid.

Provided everything went to plan, which rarely happened.

When the last unit of marines was reported to have cleared the _Blood and Iron_, Admiral Al-Hassin ordered the fleet carrier away from the planet to rejoin the battle which was still ongoing between several of his battlegroups and the rest of the Insurrectionist fleet.

The rest of the Seventh Fleet finished dumping their marines, and not a moment too soon.

"Sir, I'm getting some unusual readings…" Commander Tomlinson murmured, noticing something on the tactical console. Lieutenant Howell at the secondary tactical console confirmed it.

"Scipio?" Al-Hassin asked the shipboard AI.

"Analyzing…" Scipio cocked his head for a second before continuing. "Admiral, I am detecting slipstream space fluctuations."

"Shit!" Commander Tomlinson exclaimed as his console picked up the same thing. "New contacts slipping in-system on the other side of the planet, sir…a _lot_ of them."

Commander Tomlinson's words barely did justice to the colossal fleet of Insurrectionist ships which suddenly emerged into the Sigma Octanus system. There were hundreds of them, probably over a thousand; all of them heading right for Sigma Octanus IV.

Admiral Al-Hassin's blood ran cold just _looking_ at the newly-arrived Insurrectionist fleet.

The FLEETCOM was filled with shocked exclamations from admirals, captains, and commanders alike. All of them more or less harping on about the same thing. Al-Hassin could probably guess that every single bridge of every single ship in his fleet was doing the same thing his own was; trying really, _really_ hard not to panic and partially failing.

"Christ on a cross, look at the _size_ of that…" Lieutenant Sorrel murmured, partially in awe and partially in apprehension.

"Orders, sir?" Commander Tomlinson asked. COM transmissions from the Battlegroup Commanders of the Seventh Fleet came through onto the _Blood and Iron's_ bridge, all of them asking for the very same thing; _what the hell are we gonna do?_

"Admiral, I do not believe I need to calculate the odds of survival in a naval engagement against a force of that magnitude," Scipio stated, his voice calm and logical as ever. "Might I suggest taking evasive action?"

Al-Hassin thought it over for a few more seconds before he gave a final nod, his mind made up. "Helm, bring us about full. Mr. Rush, establish contact with the Battlegroup Commanders; tell all of them to organize their ships and retreat. We're falling back to Elpis and establishing a new defensive line there. Hopefully our prowlers can mine with the approach with their HORNET mines before the Rebs can get serious about attacking us."

As the communications officer complied and relayed the orders to the vice admirals and rear admirals commanding the myriad battlegroups which made up the Seventh Fleet, Lieutenant Sorrel manipulated the fleet carrier's helm and brought the _Blood and Iron_ around in a full turn, moving the ship away from Sigma Octanus IV.

"Sir, I'm receiving transmissions from the marines on the ground," Ensign Rush reported a minute later after all of the orders had been relayed to the Battlegroup commanders. "They've noticed our retreat and are asking for a sit-rep. What should I tell them?"

"Tell them…" Admiral Al-Hassin hated to say what he was about to say, but there was nothing else _to_ say. Doing anything which would disprove it would result in the complete annihilation of his fleet, and that would be unacceptable. "Tell them they're on their own."


	48. Chapter 47: The Leathernecks

Chapter Forty-Seven: The Leathernecks

**0558 Hours, November 15, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Côte d'Azur, Alsace**

Sigma Octanus IV was, by most standards, a very nice planet and an even nicer place to live. It had a warm climate, mild weather, a comfortable atmosphere, and many other attributes which argued to make it one of the most desirable worlds in the UNSC, especially after the really idyllic places such as Emerald Cove were glassed by the Covenant during the Great War. Captain James Stackhouse, commanding officer of India Company, normally would have enjoyed himself, if not for the fact that this nice planet was most likely going to be his final resting place, if half of what the higher-ups said about the upcoming battle was true.

Right now, Stackhouse and the rest of the First Expeditionary Force were occupying the new Côte d'Azur, the largest metropolis on Sigma Octanus IV, set on the western coast of the Alsace landmass. Well, it was really the _second_ Côte d'Azur; the original city had been obliterated by a HAVOK nuke during the Great War. UNSC evaluations had projected that it would take decades to clean up all of the radiation in the area, but the Sangheili had managed to complete the task in a little more than two years; one of many reparations the Sangheili would pay back to the Humans in atonement for their actions towards Humanity before 2552.

This new city was rebuilt from the ruins of the old one. It was identical to the original in almost every aspect, with the occasional improvement here and there. The population of Sigma Octanus IV as a whole had skyrocketed after the end of the Great War with the influx of refugees from the dozens of destroyed UNSC worlds, and a good number of those refugees were the ones who repopulated the new city.

Even so, ten years was still a short time. Côte d'Azur still had a ways to go before it was back to the way it was; the city was still somewhat empty.

Captain Stackhouse personally didn't mind that one damn bit. He had been an underage teenager by the time the Great War ended, but he had heard numerous horror stories from veterans of the nightmare of getting civilians to safety from the Covenant. During the Great War, military units would be decimated, sometimes annihilated for the sake of evacuating civilians. Here, that didn't seem like it would be the case.

The captain found himself walking into the front reception hall of a large hotel in the southeastern outskirts of Côte d'Azur, which was serving as the 3rd Division HQ. He steeled himself and took a deep breath before striding through the front entrance.

Captain Stackhouse hated visiting command posts like this; the politics of running divisions and Corps never rubbed off on him. He was much more content to sit back with his company and wait for his battalion commander or regimental colonel to give him orders. A true field officer, right down to his bones.

Two more officers were inside waiting for him. One of them was a younger, brown-haired woman in her late twenties. She was Captain Regina Bridges, the commanding officer of G Company. The other officer was an older man in his later thirties with a stubbly five-o-clock shadow covering his chin. He was Major Rawlins. Major Rawlins was the battalion commander of 3rd Battalion of the 54th Marine Regiment, of which Captain Bridges and Captain Stackhouse's companies were a part.

"Morning, sirs," Captain Stackhouse snapped Major Rawlins a salute and exchanged a friendly nod with Captain Bridges.

"How are you, James?" Major Rawlins returned the salute, pausing to brush a piece of dirt off of the gold oakleaf cluster on his shoulder straps.

"I'd be better if I were at home, in bed with my wife…" Stackhouse yawned, cupping a hand to his mouth to dampen the sound. He then shrugged. "Well, men _can_ dream the impossible, that's why half of us are still sane. I'm assuming we weren't called here just to gossip?"

Major Rawlins shook his head. "Not even close. Division's cooking up a defense plan against the Rebs. Intel says the Rebs are less than ninety kilometers away from the city, so whatever they're doing they're going to have to do fast."

"Any idea what the higher-ups are up to, then?" Captain Bridges asked next.

Major Rawlins shook his head. That made Captain Stackhouse feel better; he wasn't the only one in the dark. The Major went on to say, "They should be explaining that to us when we go in. Before we do that, I want to wait until-"

As if on cue, a warthog driving past on the street which the hotel was on pulled over to a stop. The man in the passenger seat hopped out and walked up to the front entrance, pulling open the doors and striding inside. He was also in his late twenties—a year younger than Stackhouse himself—with a closely-cropped military haircut.

"Captain Finch," Major Rawlins snapped the new arrival a quick salute.

Tom Finch was the commanding officer of H Company, the last company under Major Rawlins's command besides those of Bridges and Stackhouse. With his arrival, all of Rawlins's company commanders were now present.

"Major Rawlins, sir," Captain Finch returned the salute as he joined his comrades. "Reporting as ordered."

"Follow me; the colonel is waiting," Major Rawlins turned on his heel and headed off through the sea of headquarters personnel and their equipment. The three company commanders followed closely behind him, not giving the crowd a chance to separate them.

The battalion commander led his subordinates back to a stairwell in the back which served as an alternative to the elevator. The four officers of 3rd Battalion descended the stairs into the basement level of the hotel. Major Rawlins led the way through a short hallway and into what had used to be a storage room, but had been cleared to make way for the equipment of the 3rd Division main command center.

In the center of the room was a sizeable holo-table which projected a large representation of the metropolis of Côte d'Azur and the surrounding areas, including the Black Hills to the north, the beach and ocean to the west, and the jungles and grassy expanses to the south and east.

Hunched over the table were Major General Armistead, commander of 3rd Division, and Colonel Halpern, the regimental commander of the 54th Marines, both of them immediate superiors to Major Rawlins.

The battalion commander and his three company commanders all snapped to attention as the two higher officers looked up from the table.

"Major Rawlins, 3rd Battalion Commander, 54th Marine Regiment, reporting as ordered, sirs," Rawlins stated, adhering to protocol. After General Armistead and Colonel Halpern returned the salutes, Rawlins relaxed and gestured to Stackhouse, Bridges, and Finch, introducing them. "These are my company commanders, sirs, also present as requested."

"Thank you, Major, you can rest easy," General Armistead nodded to the four 3rd Battalion officers. He stroked his gray-streaked brown beard absent-mindedly as he returned his attention to the holo-table. "You came in good time; I was just explaining our situation to Colonel Halpern. I'll start back from the beginning; you men need to hear this. Truth be told, it pertains to you," The general glanced at the company commanders, "more than it does to me or the colonel."

Major Rawlins and the three captains clustered with the colonel and the division commander around the holo-table as Armistead began his briefing.

"The Rebs are advancing up the coast right now," General Armistead began, manipulating the controls of the holo-table to make the image zoom out far enough to see a large portion of the area of the Alsace landmass's coast which lay to the south of Côte d'Azur. At Armistead's behest, a column of red dots appeared along the coast, dots which were gradually moving north towards the city.

"Based on satellite intel, at least what we can salvage from the ones which aren't being jammed, the Rebs are here," Colonel Halpern gestured to the columns of red, "Eighty-four kilometers south of the city, and they are advancing north. They will arrive here in approximately four hours, give or take."

"How large is that force?" Captain Bridges asked.

"We can only speculate at this point; recon teams have only recently been dispatched," General Armistead explained, "but I think it would be safe to say that they have a whole army group; the Insurrectionist fleet which emerged in-system last night was _massive_, large enough to send Admiral Al-Hassin and his fleet running for the hills, and it goes to show that they were _not_ lightly armed."

There was a collective anxious breath inhaled by the officers of 3rd Battalion as the division commander revealed this, and with good reason. An army group was the informal term coined for a huge, combined force of soldiers, usually the size of many expeditionary forces. Army groups usually did not fight in individual battles; army groups fought on fronts as a whole.

Well, there was no real front in western Alsace. There was Côte d'Azur, and that was about it.

"What about _our_ army forces stationed here, what the hell are _they_ doing?" Captain Stackhouse spoke up next.

"Most of our forces on this planet are tied down in the cities south of the desert; Insurrectionist aerial forces are pounding the shit out of them…they'll assist us once they deal with the Rebs' air force down there," Armistead said. He then returned his attention to the holo-table and continued his briefing. "The Rebs won't get a straight shot at Côte d'Azur by moving up the coast. The Alsace lowlands…" a large portion of land which was a darker, mushier green than the land around it, between Côte d'Azur and the advancing Insurrectionists, was briefly highlighted blue, "…are going to prevent them from advancing forward in that direction. The Rebs'll have to hook around to the east and attack Côte d'Azur from the southeast. The Pariah River here will bottleneck them between the marshes, but not for long."

"I guess that explains why this HQ is where it is," Captain Finch noted.

"Correct," Colonel Halpern nodded. "They will attack us like so…" the red columns on the holo-table accelerated and indeed veered east, avoiding the swamps of the Alsace lowlands, and then resumed the march once they were clear, moving straight northwest towards Côte d'Azur. The columns of red spread out and slammed into the city's southeast outskirts, driving itself into the metropolis.

"Of course, our job is to ensure that what you just saw does not happen," Colonel Halpern reaffirmed.

General Armistead took back the floor. "Orders came in from General Hasegawa; we—3rd Division—are to set up a main line of defense just outside of the outskirts here," a blue line appeared below Côte d'Azur, curling around the city's south and southeastern outskirts. "Fifth Division will be forming up on the eastern perimeters. Colonel Halpern, I want you to send Major Rawlins's battalion to form a picket line in front of the main defense here," a dotted line appeared in front of the solid blue one. "A company of your choice will be our forward recon asset."

"Do you have any questions?" Colonel Halpern asked the four officers from 3rd Battalion after Armistead finished speaking.

The three company commanders and their battalion commander all shook their heads; their questions had already been answered.

"Good," General Armistead said approvingly. "You are dismissed. Organize your men and deploy to your positions immediately; you'll need all the time you can spare to fortify the lines."

"Sir!" The four 3rd Battalion officers offered a farewell salute and filed out of the command room.

"Well, sounds like we all got ourselves a fight," Captain Bridges sighed as the elevator doors dinged and slid shut. The elevator rose to the ground floor and opened, allowing the four officers inside to exit and make their way back through the crowd which occupied the rest of 3rd Division HQ.

"So, let me get this straight…" Captain Finch grumbled as he climbed into a command car waiting outside along with his comrades. "Until Division gets its defense together, we—a single battalion—are supposed to hold out against an entire _army group?_"

"Yes," was all Major Rawlins said in reply.

"Oh…" Finch sounded almost deflated at the absence of a good argument.

Captain Stackhouse's respect for his battalion commander rose a little more; Major Rawlins was never afraid to give it to his men straight. He jumped into the conversation after Finch spoke. "Odds are we won't be fighting the entire army group up front, though," the company commander surmised. He took off his helmet and ran a hand through his closely-cut, prematurely-white hair, scratching an itch on his scalp before continuing. "If the Rebs have any sense in their heads, they'll have a scouting force moving ahead of their main force. That's what will hit us, not all of their armies."

"Which is why we're setting up a picket line in the first place," Major Rawlins said.

The command car arrived at the front lines five minutes later. "This is your stop, gentlemen," the corporal driving the vehicle announced as he killed the engine. "Good luck."

The three company commanders thanked the driver as they climbed out. Major Rawlins remained in the command car, which drove on to take him to set up a battalion CP at the picket line.

All over the line outside of Côte d'Azur, marines and auxiliaries were hard at work digging trenches and setting up fortifications, preparing for the Insurrectionists' arrival. This was a new sight; there had been no need for such fortifications on Irivet V because the entire battle had been purely urban warfare. The Insurrectionists had abandoned the planet before the First Expeditionary Force could drive them out of the city. This was warfare out in the open terrain, a whole new ballpark.

The sight also put a sobering feeling in Stackhouse's gut. The reason why 3rd Division was fortifying there was because that was where the Insurrectionists would eventually attack. That meant that the picket line which his company was a part of was doomed to fail and the top brass knew it.

It wasn't a surprise to Stackhouse; picket lines were rarely used for anything except as a delaying tactic in order to allow the main defense to mobilize, but actually _seeing_ evidence of the fact right in front of him was still sobering.

At some point, his company would either fall back under heavy fire, or they would be broken and forced back in a disorganized retreat.

Either way, it meant casualties. The medics would not be idle today. Nor would the crows.

The three company commanders of 3rd Battalion went their separate ways when they arrived at the site beyond the main lines where 3rd Battalion was forming up.

Captain Stackhouse walked through a slough of trucks which would serve as 3rd Battalion's primary transport to the picket line position.

Stackhouse found Lieutenant Hiram Young, his executive officer, conversing closely with 2nd Lieutenant Baker, the commander of 3rd Platoon. "Hiram!" the white-haired company commander called out to his second in command. "We're moving out; get the men organized and onto these trucks."

"Yes, sir," Lieutenant Young replied. He moved off and relayed the orders to 1st Sergeant Haywood and the three platoon leaders. Before too long, the platoon leaders and senior noncoms had gotten the men of India Company moving onto the trucks.

Ten minutes later saw all of 3rd Battalion loaded up and ready to roll. Major Rawlins got the go-ahead from Colonel Halpern and gave everyone a green light to proceed. The loud hum of dozens of transport trucks' engines firing up at the same time rumbled across the future battlefield, ripping through the calm, misty morning silence.

The formation of trucks got moving and set off across the large grassy expanse directly southeast of Côte d'Azur. As the trucks set off to the southeast, two platoons of dragons eventually joined them. They would be providing fire support for the picket line when the time came. The trucks came to a halt just as the rainforest came into sight. Just as Captain Stackhouse was climbing out of his truck, Major Rawlins's command car drove up alongside him. The back door was pushed open and Rawlins climbed out, followed by what appeared to be a nearly seven-foot tall suit of power armor.

"Sir?" Captain Stackhouse greeted his superior officer, but the greeting was an interrogative as well. "Is that what I think it is?"

"_That_ happens to be a _he,_" the suit of armor spoke in a deep, unmistakably African-American, baritone voice.

"Captain Stackhouse, Division decided to send us some extra help," Major Rawlins explained, gesturing to the Spartan with his head. "Let me introduce you to Tyrone-G083. He will be riding shotgun with your company. Where you go, he goes."

"I've never worked with a Spartan before…" Stackhouse murmured. "I'm sure we'll all have a blast. Literally."

"That leads me to another matter," Rawlins continued, not quite finished with his company commander. "Because you have received Tyrone here, I'm designating your company as our forward recon asset. You will take India Company southeast into the forest and provide HQ with intel on the Rebs' movements. While you do so, G and H Companies will establish the picket line here. The moment things get hot out there, get back here. In fact, get back here _before_ it gets hot out there; a battalion commander is not a battalion commander with only two companies."

"Yes, sir," Captain Stackhouse replied, saying nothing more.

"I'll leave you to it then. Captain, Tyrone," the Major nodded his farewell and climbed back into the command car, which drove away towards the Battalion CP, which was in the process of being set up.

"Well, welcome to the company, glad you could join us," Captain Stackhouse said to Tyrone, turning to join the men of his company, who were still climbing out of their trucks. "I'm not going to assign you to any particular platoon; you'll know where to be better than I will."

"Sir," Tyrone nodded.

Stackhouse nodded back and began to move off. Tyrone followed him. The marine captain always felt somewhat unsure of himself in the Spartan's presence. Not insecure, mind you; you don't command two hundred men and feel insecure about yourself. No, a better word would simply be uneasy. The Spartans never talked much. Stackhouse had seen them converse with each other like old friends, but they never had much to say to outsiders.

Captain Stackhouse shook his head and dispelled those thoughts. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, "_India Company!_" at the top of his lungs. "India Company, on me!"

There were answering shouts from the senior noncoms in the company as they rounded up the men of Stackhouse's Company. In no time, three platoons of marines stood assembled in a semi-orderly fashion, awaiting their orders.

Captain Stackhouse placed himself in front of them and began to speak. "Boys, Division HQ's got a nice little job for us all! We get to take a little stroll through the forest up ahead and scout out the Rebs' movements!"

There were a good amount of groans and mutterings, but nothing blatantly derogative. Out loud, that is; Captain Stackhouse believed that half of the stuff his men thought up would curl the hair of grown men. Despite their grumbling, they were good marines. When they received orders, they followed them, and a company commander could not ask for more.

Stackhouse continued. "We do not have orders to engage-" that statement fared slightly better than the first, but it didn't really mean much. Just because they didn't have orders to engage didn't mean that it wasn't going to happen. Personally, Captain Stackhouse would have been surprised if it didn't. "But odds are that's what's going to happen," Stackhouse finished, giving it to his men straight. "Therefore, I want our formations and reconnaissance to be tight. Super-tight. I'm talking tighter than a vestal virgin's legs."

That got a round of chuckles from the men of the company.

"Any questions?" Captain Stackhouse threw the inquiry out to his men. When none of the two hundred-odd marines of India Company spoke up, Captain Stackhouse gave a final nod. "Good. Form up in your platoons and fan out in vanguard formation. 1st and 2nd Platoons will form our flanks, 3rd will bring up the center. Move out!"

The marines were nearly deafened by the sounds of every sergeant in the company barking out orders to their squads, getting the marines moving into the woods.

The rainforests which dominated the western regions of the Alsace landmass were not exactly thick enough to be considered jungles, but they had many jungle-like characteristics. The trees were spaced out farther, but their leaves were thick, blocking out a good amount of sunlight. Vines hung from the canopy, looping from tree to tree. Wildlife lurked in the underbrush, a cacophony of chirps and other sounds emerging from between the trees. The mist of the early-ish morning was present in the forest too, fog swirling between the trees, disturbed by wildlife and by the small eddies of wind which managed to penetrate the trees. Birds also populated the thick treetops, calling out to each other and tending to their young.

It was a beautiful, almost carefree life they lived.

_No longer_. Stackhouse's mouth curved into a bitter smile as he moved up to the front of his company's advance. Those birds were going to get one hell of a wake up call when artillery started blowing their homes into splinters and shavings.

Normally, Stackhouse would move up in a warthog or a command car so that he could be more mobile, but the trees prevented vehicles from adequately maneuvering, so he went on foot instead.

Stackhouse made his way through his men until he reached the very front of the formation, walking alongside Lieutenant Young and Tyrone-G083, though the Spartan still remained silent. "Recon report anything close yet?" Lieutenant Young asked his superior.

Stackhouse shrugged. "I just dispatched men to take point; they'll be reporting back in a few minutes."

The Spartan tightened his grip on his battered M90 shotgun, speaking for the first time since Stackhouse had met him. "Don't like this forest all that much," the Spartan murmured. "Too many places for snipers to hide. If the Rebs bring artillery down on our heads, those trees'll become instant wood-chippers. Why do they even need an entire company to serve as a recon force?"

"Top brass in this case happens to be General McCandlish," Lieutenant Young shrugged. "And McCandlish sure as hell knows what he's doing, so if he wants a whole company out on scout duty, I'm sure he's got a reason."

After another ten or so minutes, Captain Stackhouse began to feel uneasy; his company had not made any contact with the advancing Insurrectionists. They hadn't even _heard_ anything from them. Stackhouse voiced his misgivings to Tyrone and Lieutenant Young.

The Spartan grunted in reply. "Unusual," he said, getting as much mileage from a single word as a tactician would from five minutes of speculation.

Captain Stackhouse held up a hand and halted the company's advance. As the sergeants and noncoms relayed the halt order, the entire company came to a stop. Stackhouse scanned through 3rd Platoon in front of him and selected one of the lithest, most agile marines in the unit. "Private Carson!" Stackhouse barked.

"Sir!" the indicated marine, a young kid—no older than nineteen—spoke up.

"You any good at climbing trees, son?"

"Quite, sir!"

"Good. See that tree over there? Yeah, that one," Stackhouse pointed to a particularly tall banyan tree. "I want you to climb up to the top and tell me what you see to the southeast."

"Yes, sir," Private Carson dropped his gear and weapon and, determined not to waste any time in front of his company commander, sprinted over to the tree which Stackhouse had indicated. The young marine leaped up and snagged a low-lying branch, pulling himself up and into the network of branches which wound all the way into the canopy way above. With the agility of a monkey, Carson scaled the tree, swinging from one branch to the next, utilizing the vines as much as the branches. It took him only two minutes to climb above the canopy.

"What do you see?!" Stackhouse had to cup a hand to his mouth for the private to hear him.

"Nothing, sir!" the reply was shouted back down from above. "Am I supposed to be seeing something?!"

Captain Stackhouse took a second to think. "Look east-southeast; we should be on a gradual slope facing downwards! Do you see a river?!"

Carson took a moment to spot what his company commander was talking about. "Yes, sir, I do!"

"Alright, that's the Pariah! And how about to the south; do you see marshlands?!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Do you see any military forces advancing up between them?! Any movement at all?!" Stackhouse asked next.

There was a pause.

"Carson?!" Stackhouse hollered, not sure if the private had heard him.

"No, sir! Nothing!" Carson shouted back down.

"What the…" Captain Stackhouse muttered. "This isn't right…the Rebs are supposed to be storming right at us from that direction right _now_…"

"I think we should call this in to Major Rawlins," Lieutenant Young suggested.

"Sir, I agree," Tyrone interjected.

Captain Stackhouse nodded, activating his personal COM unit. "Battalion HQ, this is India Company; come in Major Rawlins."

There was a brief pause at the other end, no doubt an HQ operator hurrying to patch the transmission through to the battalion commander personally. A few seconds later, though, Major Rawlins's husky tones issued forth.

"This is Major Rawlins."

"Sir, I think we may have a problem," Stackhouse said. "Can you patch me through to Division HQ; they're going to want to hear this immediately."

Major Rawlins didn't waste time asking what this 'problem' might have been. If it was as serious as Captain Stackhouse said it was, he had no doubt Division or Regimental HQ would get back to him and fill him in on the details. Instead, he told Stackhouse to keep him posted and complied, patching the company commander through to Division HQ.

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Feldspar," the voice of Major General Armistead's adjutant came over the COM. "Who am I speaking with?"

"Lieutenant Colonel Feldspar, sir, this is Captain Stackhouse; India Company CO, 54th Regiment. I need to speak with General Armistead immediately."

"The general is busy at the moment," Feldspar's response was. "However, I can-"

"Sir, the general is going to want to hear this; trust me," Captain Stackhouse said.

"I don't think that you are able to-"

"Sir," Stackhouse interrupted Armistead's adjutant again, visibly and audibly losing patience. "Sir, I'm standing fifteen klicks away from the bottleneck between the Pariah River and the Alsace lowlands, and you know what else? I don't see a single damn Reb coming at me, not even in the distance. This place is empty."

"But…but that's impossible…" Lieutenant Colonel Feldspar murmured at the other end of the COM. "I'm looking at our holo-table right now; satellite intel says that the Rebs have already advanced past that point are closing in on your battalion's picket line."

"Exactly, sir; they should be swarming us right now, but they're not. One of my men is looking at the bottleneck right now with his own two eyes; I'm telling you, there's absolutely nothing here," Captain Stackhouse reaffirmed himself. "The Reb fleet in orbit must have knocked out our satellites after they drove the Seventh Fleet back to Elpis; that's the only explanation I can think of."

"You're right; General Armistead needs to hear this. Hold a second…"

There was another pause on the other end of the COM, but after a minute the older, vibrant voice of Lothario Armistead came over the COM, asking what the situation was. Captain Stackhouse explained everything to the general that he had explained to Feldspar, leaving out no minor details.

When he was done, he called for Private Carson to come down out of the tree.

General Armistead let out a deeply troubled sigh, which came across as a rush of static over the COM channel. "If they have knocked out our satellites, then we are blind until McCandlish can get our air wing into the sky," the division commander murmured. "How could-_what?_" Armistead suddenly broke off, talking to another man who was too far away to be heard over the COM, resulting in Stackhouse hearing only the general's half of the conversation. "_When?_..._Just now?_..._Contact General Hasegawa; tell him we need him to get General Harrington to send every available tank he has to reinforce them!_..._We'll do what we can, but_…_All of them?!_..._Damn it all, how did they pull this off, right under our noses?!_..._Yes, see to it_… India Company; are you still there?" Armistead returned his attention to the COM.

"Regrettably," Captain Stackhouse replied.

"Captain, get moving back to our lines; there's nothing for you out there. I just got word from General Natchez—General Morrison's replacement—that the Rebs just slammed into 5th Division's lines east of the city. It seems you were right when you guessed that our satellites were no longer reliable; the Rebs got through the forests to the east without our knowing it. Hurry up; you'll get cut off out there if you don't move quickly! Report back to your battalion commander and await further orders. Division HQ out."

With that, the COM went dead, plunging India Company into silence.

"Alright, let's get this show back onto the right road," Captain Stackhouse said evenly, killing the COM and straightening back up. "Lieutenant Baker, get your men turned around and moving back towards the city. Young, go pass the word along to 1st and 2nd Platoons and make sure they get turned around properly as well."

The shouting of noncoms relaying orders filled the forest once again as India Company got turned around and began the march all the way back to Côte d'Azur. The men moved much faster going back than they had coming out. It was only natural; when they were going out _into_ the rainforest, the men of Stackhouse's company were waiting to be ambushed or attacked by a whole army of hostiles. Now, they were in danger of being cut off by that same army, which had fooled the satellites and ended up attacking from a completely different direction. Naturally, that prompted a quicker pace.

The sounds of battle were just beginning to take root in Captain Stackhouse's ears when Tyrone gave a low grunt and murmured, "Rebs've got some pretty heavy stuff swinging down southeast by the sounds of it."

Stackhouse cocked an eyebrow, hearing only the distant clatter of what was probably a heavy machinegun position firing away at a group of luckless marines. Tyrone could obviously hear a lot more and a lot farther than he himself could.

As India Company continued on towards Côte d'Azur, a familiar screeching, whistling sound filled the air. "Artillery…" Hiram Young observed. "Sounds like ours…"

"Well, there's plenty of it to go around," Captain Stackhouse interjected. "Good thing McCandlish isn't waiting with his thumb up his ass; he's hitting them early."

Another whistling noise—a different pitch this time—reverberated through the marines' ears. That was Insurrectionist counterbattery-fire, artillery trying to knock out the UNSC guns which had just opened up on them.

"Sounds like they've got 155s," Tyrone observed.

"Come on, boys! Faster!" 1st Sergeant Haywood barked out from elsewhere in the company.

India Company hurried through the trees. The heavy weapons teams bearing heavy machinegun mounts and Jackhammer rocket launchers had to struggle to keep up, but none of them complained or fell short of doing what was necessary.

As India Company made its way through the forest, Tyrone must have heard something out of the ordinary, as he dropped to his knees and shouted for everyone to do the same.

Captain Stackhouse contacted his platoon commanders and ordered them to halt their men and lay low. "What is it?" he whispered to Tyrone. "What do you hear?"

"Infantry," Tyrone whispered back. "Heading this way. They'll cut us off if we don't move quick…but if we break cover they'll spot us and mow us down from the rear…"

Captain Stackhouse craned his neck over the underbrush and brought his field glasses to his eyes. He saw the infantry Tyrone had heard; at least a battalion's worth of Insurrectionist soldiers clad in their usual gray fatigues. "Shit…" the company commander swore as he saw them. The Spartan was right; his company was trapped.

"So...we get up and move, they mow us down from the rear," Captain Stackhouse murmured. "We stay here, they discover us, and we get slaughtered anyway..."

"Sir, give me a heavy weapons team," Tyrone urged the company commander. "I can distract them and give your boys a chance to get back to the picket line."

Captain Stackhouse did not even hesitate, much to Tyrone's approval. The company commander went with the Spartan and pulled a heavy machinegun team from one of 1st Platoon's squads. He sent them and Tyrone on their way.

"All platoon leaders, this is Stackhouse; wait for my go before breaking," the company commander breathed over the COM to his platoon commanders, talking as quietly as possible.

"They're getting awfully close, sir," a marine who was hunkered down near by murmured.

"Steady, marine," was all Stackhouse said in reply. "If you run now, you get us all killed.

As the company commander spoke, there was the familiar clatter of the mobile AIE heavy machinegun accompanied by concentrated weaponsfire as Tyrone and the marines in the heavy weapons team opened up on the advancing Insurrectionists.

Screams also filled the air as the Insurrectionists were hit. A good number were cut down by the sudden burst of heavy weaponsfire coming from the wrong direction, but Stackhouse saw them recover rather quickly and take cover. Shouts and orders now rose from the battalion of Insurrectionists as they responded to the threat. Flashes and explosions from grenades ripped through the forest, scattering any nearby wildlife which hadn't been scared off by the heavy machinegun.

The machinegun broke off as the Insurrectionists turned and concentrated their attention on its position.

"Now! Move it up!" Stackhouse shouted loud enough to make his throat raw.

The marines of India Company broke cover and sprinted northwest towards Côte d'Azur, moving past the Insurrectionists. By the time the hostile troops saw them, India Company was already fading into the underbrush.

After a few minutes, India Company was joined by the two marines who had gone with Tyrone to man the heavy machinegun. When asked where the Spartan was, they merely said that he had stayed behind to allow them to escape.

Captain Stackhouse shrugged. "He survived the Great War; he's been through a hell of a lot more situations worse than this one. We'll see him again."

Côte d'Azur came into sight fifteen minutes later as India Company reached the edge of the woods. The two hundred-odd marines of Stackhouse's company had never been so relieved at the sight of it. It would also be the last time they _ever_ felt relieved to see it.

3rd Battalion's picket line had been fortified to a reasonable degree. Thankfully, no one opened fire as his company came sprinting out of the forest like a pack of maniacs.

"Join the line and take up your positions!" Captain Stackhouse shouted to his men. "Grab any extra ammo you can find and dig in; we're gonna have company real soon!"

As India Company's marines reached the picket line, they bounded over the defenses and joined their comrades from Golf and Hotel Companies.

"Hiram, keep things organized here," Stackhouse said to his executive officer. "I'm going to stop by Battalion HQ and find out what the hell is going on."

"Hurry back, sir," Lieutenant Young said.

Stackhouse took that to heart and set off at a brisk pace towards Major Rawlins's Battalion HQ, set a few hundred meters back from the picket line. The HQ itself was nothing much; most of the HQ staff was back behind 3rd Division's lines. Stackhouse couldn't fault them for that; the picket line was only going to last for a short time, so why bother set up a full HQ when it was just going to get overrun anyway?

"Major Rawlins, sir!" Captain Stackhouse called out to his superior officer.

Rawlins finished talking to what appeared to be a quartermaster sergeant and turned to address his subordinate. "Yes, Stackhouse? Make it quick."

"Sir, has Colonel Halpern briefed you about what we found out in the forest yet?"

Rawlins immediately nodded, seeing that Stackhouse was in a hurry. "Yes, they said that the Rebs must have knocked down our satellites in orbit and tampered with their signals…I would marvel at how easily they fooled us if not for the fact that it was _us_ they were fooling, not the other way around," Major Rawlins shook his head, getting back on topic. "The Rebs came out of the forests to the east of the city and are hitting 5th Division's lines en masse, though Natchez seems to be holding up."

"Sir, on our way back we encountered a battalion of Insurrectionists moving around our southeastern flank," Stackhouse reported. "We managed to escape with a distraction and without casualties, but they'll be hitting us momentarily. The thing is, they were only the fore of their force; there are bound to be a _lot_ more of them coming this way."

Major Rawlins nodded slowly. He looked troubled, but did not show it in his voice. "Thank you, Captain…I'll get on the horn with Regiment and see what we can scrape up in terms of reinforcements. In the meantime, report back to your company."

"Sir!" Captain Stackhouse saluted the battalion commander as he walked away. He jogged all the way back to the picket line, where platoon commanders and senior noncoms were organizing the marines for the oncoming assault.

Stackhouse dropped into a mostly-completed foxhole. A lance corporal and a buck private were already in it, bringing the foxhole up to its maximum capacity of three.

"Sir," the lance corporal gave a respectful nod. The private—he must have been a replacement; Stackhouse couldn't remember his name—gave a shaky salute, but didn't say anything.

"You fight on Irivet, kid?" Stackhouse asked.

"No, sir," the private replied. "I was assigned to your company just before we all left Irivet V."

"Alright…" Stackhouse nodded. It made sense. "Keep your head down and don't stick out anything you don't want to lose. That's one of the things replacements take eons to learn, but maybe you'll prove yourself a prodigy at battlefield education."

"Yes, sir."

Captain Stackhouse remained silent for the next few minutes. He hefted his MA6A assault rifle and adjusted the laser dot sight. He was just finishing checking the rifle's chamber when the telltale scream of artillery filled the morning air. Shouts of "_Incoming!_" and "_Take cover!_" rose all along the picket line as the sound registered in the marines' minds.

"Everyone _get down!_" Stackhouse yelled _above_ the top of his lungs. He found himself already hunkering down close to the foxhole's forward edge even before he shouted. After being shelled enough times, finding cover just became pure instinct, another one of the things which separated seasoned veterans from green replacements.

Heavy 155 millimeter explosive shells streaked down through the air, slamming into the picket line. The fury of the Insurrectionist artillery made it feel as though an earthquake were tearing through the ground. Screams and yells arose from elsewhere up and down the line as some artillery shells found their mark. The screams were from the marines next to where the shells hit; any men of women hit directly by the artillery simply ceased to exist.

Shouts for medics were the heard as unharmed marines tended to their wounded comrades.

There was an explosion as a shell slammed down into a nearby foxhole, nearly bursting Stackhouse's eardrums. Luckily his helmet cushioned his ears from the blast. Something dropped into the company commander's foxhole, bouncing off of the lance corporal's leg.

The lance corporal let out a small stream of expletives. Stackhouse looked down and saw a human hand and half of the arm to which it was attached lying at the bottom of the foxhole. Stackhouse swore as well. The captain leaned forward and grasped the appendage with his free hand, picking it up and lobbing it over and out of the foxhole. The buck private sharing the hole with Stackhouse and the lance corporal looked nauseous, subconsciously clasping a hand to his stomach.

"Hold it in, private!" the lance corporal yelled over the din of the artillery. "The captain and I don't want to be sitting in your breakfast!"

"Yes, sir, I'll try," the private managed to mutter, taking deep breaths.

After another two minutes, the artillery finally stopped, allowing the marines of 3rd Battalion to raise their heads for the first time since the first shell hit the ground.

Just in time to see a whole battalion's worth of Insurrectionists emerge from the trees.

"Shit!" Captain Stackhouse swore, grabbing his MA6A assault rifle and shimmying up to the edge of the foxhole, lying prone next to the lance corporal. "Get ready! Hold your fire until they draw closer!" the company commander shouted.

Stackhouse could hear Captain Bridges and Captain Finch shouting similar orders to their marines further down the line.

"Lieutenant Young, what's the butcher's bill on that barrage?" Captain Stackhouse asked his exec over the COM.

"Sir," Lieutenant Young replied, "Sir, looks like we have three dead, seven wounded. H Company was hit worse, though."

"Make sure the wounded are evac-ed; shrapnel wounds bleed out really fast," Stackhouse ordered. "Stackhouse out."

Stackhouse peered through his field glasses at the advancing Insurrectionists. He could spot officers leading at the front of the formation, as well as other, older men clad in black trench coats with red trim and strangely shaped hats. They reminded him of the commissars of the communist armies of centuries ago. Those men seemed to be directing the Insurrectionists, driving them forward.

There was a metallic hum from the forest, and then a line of Insurrectionist warthogs cleared the trees, their turrets spinning up for action.

"How the fuck did they get vehicles through that forest?" the lance corporal exclaimed.

"Doesn't matter," Stackhouse replied. "Onlything that matters is that they did."

Stackhouse waited for the Insurrectionists to advance a little more before he finally gave the order to open fire. The marines of India Company obeyed that order with a good amount of enthusiasm. The loud, rippling wave of hundreds of automatic weapons opening fire at the same time filled the cool, misty morning air. The contrast between the soon-to-become chaotic battlefield and the tranquil feeling of nature was almost as great as matter and antimatter. Luckily, they didn't cause a huge explosion when they mixed with each other.

By now, the Insurrectionist formation had broken. That meant nothing in terms of advance or retreat; it just meant that the soldiers in gray had decided to spread out, which was smart, considering what they were trying to charge.

Stackhouse aimed down his laser sight at a luckless Insurrectionist soldier moving off to the right and squeezed off a short, controlled burst. The soldier went down, screaming and clutching his stomach, which was severely bleeding. Two of the soldier's comrades hurried over and grasped him by the shoulders, dragging him away. Stackhouse took them out as well with two additional bursts and then finished off the man on the ground with a final spray. That done, the captain moved his aim to another target.

The two platoons of dragons occupying the picket line opened fire as well, sending high explosive shells into the charging Insurrectionists who didn't take cover.

A rocket flew out from an Insurrectionist position and slammed into one of the tanks. The rocket hit the dragon dead on and mangled its frontal armor, but the thick armor held. Had the rocket hit the rear or sides it probably would have penetrated, but the front of a tank is the strongest in terms of its armor.

The tank continued to fire until a second rocket flew right for it. The second rocket missed, but the message was clear; the tanks were sitting ducks where they were.

The two platoons of dragons pulled back and retreated to 3rd Division's lines.

3rd Battalion's heavy machineguns opened up on the Insurrectionists, but the enemy had no intention of sacrificing itself as cannon fodder. As the Insurrectionists continued to advance, there were a series of popping noises from in front of the picket line, accompanied by a familiar smell.

"Shit, they're popping smoke!" a marine further down towards the center of the line shouted. Sure enough, an opaque wall of the gray visual obstructer masked the Insurrectionists' advance, resulting in most of 3rd Battalion's retaliatory measures to be reduced to firing blindly into the smoke.

Tracer rounds from the Insurrectionist warthog turrets tore through the smoke, little streaks of lightning, slamming into anything unlucky enough to be in their paths. It made the battlefield look like some sort of hellish fireworks show, coupled with the flashes of exploding grenades.

To make matters worse, the wind was blowing northwest towards Côte d'Azur. That blew the smokescreen right _into_ 3rd Battalion's picket line, reducing all visibility to roughly four or five feet in any direction.

"Stay sharp! If you see a shadow, shoot first and ask later!" the noncoms roared over the din of weaponsfire and grenade explosions.

Captain Stackhouse saw a silhouette in the smoke several meters away, running right into the picket line. He promptly brought his MA6A around and squeezed off another burst, taking the figure down. Three more silhouettes appeared, followed by at least another eleven behind. Stackhouse, the lance corporal, and the private all opened fire, taking down the first three Insurrectionists and two of the ones in the second wave before the rest dropped to their stomachs and took cover.

Something thudded next to Stackhouse's foot. The captain looked down and swore viciously. "_Grenade!_" Stackhouse grabbed the small, little sphere which had the potential to end three lives and hurled it away with all his strength. It exploded four feet away in midair, making the company commander's ears ring.

As Stackhouse shook his head and blinked the stunning effect out of his eyes, the rest of the Insurrectionists got back to their feet and charged right at him.

Stackhouse took down two more Insurrectionists before he felt a spray of red on his arms. He looked down to his left and saw the lance corporal lying on the ground, the top of his head gone. The buck private was retching his breakfast out on the other side of the foxhole.

Stackhouse grabbed the private by the front of his uniform and shook him out of his stupor. "On your feet, marine! Do you want to die here!?"

"N-no, sir!"

"Then pick up your weapon and f-"

The private was suddenly hit right in the chest by a burst from what sounded like a submachine gun. The kid let out a groan and fell to the ground, moving feebly for a few seconds before breathing one last time and lying still.

"Motherfucker…" Captain Stackhouse swore at the death of his two men. He swung around and fired off a burst into the first Insurrectionist to rush his foxhole. Two more soldiers in gray leaped in after their deceased comrade, thrusting forward their rifles, which Stackhouse saw had gleaming bayonets attached to the ends.

Stackhouse deflected the first blow with his MA6A and smashed the first Insurrectionist in the face, grinning with satisfaction as he heard the crunch of shattering teeth. Not that the other man would need to worry about it much longer.

The company commander's weapon was knocked out of his hands by the second man's thrust, which caught his arm and scored a skin-deep laceration.

Stackhouse bared his teeth in pain, but did not scream. Instead, he reached down to his thigh and drew Elizabeth, his permanently bloodstained combat knife, named after his beloved wife. He sidestepped the Insurrectionist's secondary thrust and moved in close, plunging the knife into the hapless man's neck. Then man crumpled and pitched forward, dead as his comrades. Stackhouse then finished off the first Insurrectionist who he had smashed in the face with a cut across the throat.

Blood spurted onto Stackhouse's helmet and face after he did the deed, causing him to cry out in disgust. He hocked up a lugie and spat the blood out of his mouth. "Last time I do that…" he muttered.

Stackhouse had no more time to think. The wind picked up a little more and finally blew the last of the smoke away, revealing the rest of the advancing Insurrectionists. A group of five more soldiers in gray were in the process of rushing Stackhouse's foxhole as the company commander straightened up.

Stackhouse reached to his hip and drew his magnum sidearm. He fired twice and dropped as many Insurrectionists before the remaining three leaped into his foxhole. Stackhouse ducked the first blow, but was caught in the back by a rifle butt. The company commander cried out in pain and fell to his knees. One of the Insurrectionists pushed him over onto his back and placed a boot on his neck.

Stackhouse watched the man calmly reload his rifle and aim it right into his face. Just as the man curled his finger around the trigger, a series of shots rang out and the three Insurrectionists were thrown onto their backs, their fronts riddled with fresh bullet holes.

"The captain's down!" a nearby marine shouted. Two men and a woman slid down into the foxhole, but Stackhouse was already getting to his feet.

"I'm fine, I'm _fine_, dammit!" Stackhouse exclaimed, picking up his MA6A and reloading it. "Just took a little knock to the back."

The three marines clambered out of the foxhole to rejoin the fray and Stackhouse followed them, not desiring to spend another minute with his two dead comrades.

Seconds blended together into minutes and hours. Captain Stackhouse looked down his laser sights at face after face after face. The faces all seemed to blend together in a sea of gray. Stackhouse's trigger finger became robotic, systematically ending a life every time it squeezed.

When the gray faces got up close, Elizabeth came out. She cut, cleaved, and slashed, drawing blood from the enemy in defense of her wielder.

It seemed like hours and hours, but the battle was over in a mere forty-five minutes. Stackhouse finally stumbled as he moved out of another foxhole and saw that there was no longer anything for him to aim and shoot at. The Insurrectionists were fleeing back into the forest, leaving a bloody trail of corpses in their wake.

Captain Stackhouse lowered his assault rifle and shook his head, clearing the daze into which his mind had slipped. He sat down where he stood and tended to the laceration on his arm, courtesy of a now-deceased Insurrectionist soldier lying in a foxhole somewhere.

3rd Battalion had taken a beating, putting it mildly. Company commanders later reported to Battalion HQ to give sit-reps on the states of their companies to Major Rawlins. Golf Company was down to seventy-six percent strength. Hotel and India Companies were only slightly better off.

The medics were busy, loading up wounded onto trucks and transporting them back to the field hospitals behind 3rd Division's lines.

"Sir, we cannot hold this line through many more charges like that," Captain Finch sighed. He had a bloodstained rag pressed to his shoulder and walked with a limp, but had no overt, life-threatening wounds. Even so, the battle had taken its toll on the CO of H Company.

"We can probably last through one more," Captain Bridges surmised. "After that…"

"Division is telling me to hold this position for another hour," Major Rawlins said, sitting down and wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Sir, with all due respect, we'll all be bloodstains on the ground in an hour," Captain Stackhouse retorted.

Major Rawlins shook his head. "I've convinced Colonel Halpern to send 1st battalion to reinforce us. When the Rebs come back they'll be facing two battalions instead of one…that's the best I can do, though. If any of your wounded are not in bad shape, if they can still hold a gun, keep them on the line. We're gong to need every marine we can spare."

As the Major finished talking, a runner sprinted into HQ, heading straight over to the battalion commander. "Major Rawlins, sir," the runner snapped a quick salute before continuing. "Sir, our left flank has spotted another, larger force of Rebs heading right for us from the east." the runner had to pause to regain his breath, "Sir, they have light armor with them!"

Major Rawlins swore, letting out another weary sigh. "Thank you, private," the battalion dismissed the runner, turning back to his company commanders. "We'll have reinforcements soon. Get back to your companies and shore up your defenses as best as you can. We haven't ridden this one out yet."

"Sir!" Captains Bridges, Finch, and Stackhouse snapped to attention and fired off quick salutes to their superior.

Captain Stackhouse headed right back to his company and called for an impromptu staff meeting. Lieutenant Young, 2nd Lieutenant Entley—1st Platoon's commander, 2nd Lieutenant Gable—2nd Platoon's commander, 1st Sergeant Haywood, and Gunnery Sergeant Al Dupree were present.

"Where is Lieutenant Baker?" Captain Stackhouse asked, not seeing 3rd Platoon's commander.

"He's everywhere," Gunnery Sergeant Dupree grumbled. "Stopped an artillery shell with his face. I've got 3rd Platoon, now."

Captain Stackhouse didn't have time for a eulogy. All he could to was acknowledge the death, 'congratulate' Gunnery Sergeant Dupree, and keep on going. "Battalion HQ says we have more shit heading our way. Larger shit, possibly with light armor. Dig into your foxholes as deep as you all can and make sure the defenses are as strong as they can be. Make sure your rocket teams are fully equipped; we'll need them more than anything. Any questions?"

"No, sir," Lieutenant Young spoke for everyone.

"Good," Captain Stackhouse nodded. Shouts and the sound of barked orders was heard in the distance as the next wave of Insurrectionists moved up through the forest, preparing to crush 3rd Battalion's picket line. "Dismissed."

As the platoon leaders hurried off to see to their men, Lieutenant Young accompanied Stackhouse to a heavily fortified foxhole in the center of India Company's position. "You think we can last through this one, sir?"

"I hope so."


	49. Chapter 48: Doubt

Chapter Forty-Eight: Doubt

**1130 Hours, November 15, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Côte d'Azur, Alsace**

Captain Stackhouse was not afraid.

He had lived on Reach during the Great War when he was a kid. When fire and death had rained out of the skies onto his home and family, he had been scared. After living through a hell like that, something as simple as an entire regiment of enemy soldiers charging his under-strength picket line was really nothing to get in a nervous breakdown over. For him, at least.

Not many of the other marines had been subjected to that kind of baptism through fire, not even by fighting in Ainsdell City. Ainsdell had been different; the Insurrectionists there had been sorely outnumbered and outgunned by the First Expeditionary Force. The battles had been more subdued, confined to the compact, closed-in city streets. Now, the tables were turned. Now, the First Expeditionary Force was playing defense, facing off with an Insurrectionist force which was several times larger.

The mass of soldiers in gray emerged from the forests, arrayed in a quasi-chaotic line formation. Basically, the Insurrectionist commanders abandoned formal formations and simply pointed towards 3rd Battalion's picket line, telling their soldiers to move and shoot.

Captain Stackhouse could tell that the Insurrectionist armies were ones more used to internal security; quelling uprisings and keeping order. They had no real sense of tactics. However, in this case, they had numbers. Sometimes numbers did not matter, but at the picket line they did. The Insurrectionists could keep on sending wave after wave at Major Rawlins's battalion and eventually it would be crushed to jelly, no matter how many losses 3rd Battalion inflicted unto them.

However, as well as having poor tactics, the Insurrectionist commanders also did not needlessly sacrifice their soldiers if they could help it. When they had the chance, they would send in vehicular support. Now, as Stackhouse watched the approach from the forest with his field glasses, the company commander could see light armor advancing up behind the infantry. There were armored cars and BMPs, all of them bearing heavy caliber machinegun turrets. Several of the BMPs also contained light artillery cannons.

"Where's our Goddamn artillery when we need it?" Lieutenant Hiram Young muttered through clenched teeth. The executive officer shimmied up to the front edge of the foxhole he was sharing with his superior officer, lying prone right next to him.

"Shelling targets as close as them would probably tear _us_ up, too," Stackhouse, who had seen his fair share of marines cut down by their own artillery, surmised, not incorrectly.

"Bah," Lieutenant Young snorted. "I need _something_ to bitch about, might as well make it our artillery."

"Amen," Stackhouse murmured. The company commander checked to make sure his MA6A assault rifle's mag was full, flicking off the safety after he was satisfied that it was not.

The clanking of the advancing BMPs grew louder as the Insurrectionists drew closer to the picket line.

"Keep your heads down!" Captain Stackhouse shouted down the line to his surviving marines. "Wait for the rocket teams to take out some of the enemy armor before engaging!"

Stackhouse was echoed by his platoon leaders and sergeants as they made sure the rest of the company further down the line was aware of his orders.

A shot rang out, fired from an Insurrectionist rifle. There was an answering burst from somewhere way down at the picket line's left flank. That was Captain Bridge's G Company. More shots from the advancing Insurrectionists ripped through the pre-battle silence, effectively ending it. The roar of a BMP's cannon followed right after.

The ground shook slightly as the vehicles drew even closer; not as violently as it had during the artillery barrage on the picket line before the first wave, but it was enough to be distinctly felt.

Finally, one of India Company's rocket teams found a window of opportunity. A marine stood up from a foxhole bearing a double-barreled Jackhammer on his shoulder. He quickly unloaded both tubes of the rocket launcher before hitting the dirt. A hail of machinegun-fire tore up the earthen and wooden fortifications which made up the front of the foxhole as the man dropped to the ground. The two blazing rockets streaked through the air and slammed into the BMP which had previously opened fire.

The Insurrectionist light armor brewed up in an orange fireball. One of the side hatches was thrown open and a human torch came tumbling out. Captain Stackhouse watched as one of the man's comrades put him out of his agony with a quick burst from his rifle.

Captain Stackhouse did not envy the crews of tanks. Sure, a tank crewman was shielded from enemy weaponsfire and grenades. Infantry could get torn up all different kinds of ways, most of which would simply clank off of the armor of a tank. However, infantry could get hit and get off easy with light or superficial wounds. When a tank crew got hit, they got _hit_.

More rockets leapt from the picket line, some of them hitting their targets, others missing them. Some of the missed ones would at least take out a group of infantry, but a good portion exploded harmlessly on the ground.

Not all of the men and women bearing rocket launchers went through their barrage unscathed; Stackhouse could hear cries and screams from down the line which signaled that not all of them had successfully dodged enemy weaponsfire.

The rockets were not enough to drive the Insurrectionist light armor back, only enough to slow it down. Still, that was much better than nothing.

Explosions ripped through the picket line as the Insurrectionists began tossing grenades. The marines were able to throw many of them back, or at least scramble away before they detonated. Those who were not able to accomplish either of those things fell into two categories; marines who badly needed a medic, and, putting it quite simply, corpses. Or pieces of them, anyway.

One such grenade sailed right into Stackhouse's foxhole, but Lieutenant Young lobbed it back over the edge. It exploded harmlessly somewhere in front of the picket line, showering Stackhouse and Young with dirt.

"We should probably separate!" Lieutenant Young exclaimed as he opened fire, yelling over the sound of his assault rifle. "Wouldn't be good if both of us got hit in the same foxhole, then the company would be leaderless!"

"Be my guest!" Captain Stackhouse took aim at a duo of Insurrectionist soldiers a squeezed off a few shots at them. "You want to get your ass shot off, go right ahead; I'm staying right here!"

Lieutenant Young didn't move either. He had a very logical point of saying that a company commander and his exec in the same hole was probably a bad idea, but flying bullets and shells didn't give a rat's ass about logic. If either one of them felt compelled to leap out of their foxhole to find another one, that would probably be their last action.

The Insurrectionists came equipped this time, much more equipped than the first wave had. Captain Stackhouse got the feeling that the first wave had been nothing more than a feeler, getting a sense of 3rd Battalion's defenses, seeing what the marines could dole out to their ground forces. Obviously they must have considered 3rd Battalion at least a somewhat major threat, as their troops carried deployable shields which resembled the deployable covers of the Covenant, but they glowed a faint green and had a different, more alien architecture.

Stackhouse had heard whisperings of another advanced alien race which the Insurrectionists were allied with, but he had not personally _seen_ any such aliens. He knew there had been some on Irivet V; men from other regiments and divisions told such stories of twenty-foot tall lizard-like creatures, but again, Stackhouse had never personally seen one. If he was lucky, he never would.

Anyhow, those small, mobile energy shields were what allowed the Insurrectionist infantry to advance on the picket line without being torn apart before they had the chance to take a breath.

Despite their superb cover, the shields had a weakness. Captain Stackhouse found out by observing them with his field glasses that they had a small exposed piece at the very center of the bottom of the shield. It must have been the power generator because if that spot was hit by a bullet, the entire shield went down, exposing the soldiers behind it and forcing them to take proper cover.

After making this discovery and testing it, Stackhouse got onto the COM with his platoon leaders and instructed them to tell their men about how to counter the shields. After a minute, several more Insurrectionist energy shields fizzled and went dark. A good number of the soldiers behind them went down in the follow-up hails of UNSC weaponsfire, but the rest were able to dive for cover.

Though these tactics _did_ slow the Insurrectionists down, they did not come close to stopping them. The Insurrectionist infantry and light armor were less than one hundred meters away from the picket line when Captain Stackhouse felt someone slide into his foxhole. The company commander snapped his gaze around to face the newcomer; a young PFC with a little peach fuzz on his chin.

"Howdy, sir!" the marine gave Stackhouse a quick nod as he shimmied forward to join the two officers at the front of the foxhole. "Private 1st Class Dachauer, 2nd Platoon, Alpha Company!"

"You're 1st Battalion?!" Lieutenant Young shouted over the din of the raging battle.

"Sure am!"

"Rawlins must have gotten through to Regiment!" Captain Stackhouse said, relief clearly audible in his voice. "We're mighty glad to see you boys!"

From what the company commander could see, several hundred marines had joined the ones already manning the picket line. As their firepower was added to that of 3rd Battalion, the Insurrectionist advance was finally slowed to a crawl.

Captain Stackhouse kept close beads trained on the hunkered Insurrectionist soldiers. He kept up his fire whenever he saw a particularly bold enemy stick up his head. The rhythmic ritual of ejecting an empty mag and slamming a new one into the chamber became unconscious after Stackhouse performed it time and time again. The company commander lost track of time once again, just as he had before. Being in the middle of hell did that to soldiers; veterans of the Great War would tell stories about being holed up in trenches for days with plasmafire exploding all around them. They would tell about days seeming like they were only hours, minutes seeming like years. Time was malleable on a battlefield.

After a while, Captain Stackhouse was shaken out of his robotic, emotionless state by a runner from Battalion HQ. "Sir! Captain Stackhouse, sir!" the man shouted, grasping Stackhouse's arm.

"What is it!?" the company commander yelled back.

"Sir, General Armistead is ordering all forces here to fall back to the main lines! Your retreat will be covered by artillery!"

"Division's finished with the defenses already?!"

"Well…no, sir," the runner replied, shaking his head. "Take a look to the northeast!"

Captain Stackhouse complied, bringing his field glasses to his eyes and glancing in the direction which the runner had indicated. What he saw was an arrowhead-shaped formation of Insurrectionist tanks emerging from the forests, driving onwards through the UNSC firestorm like it was nothing but a light summer breeze.

"What the hell are the rocket teams down there doing?!" Young exclaimed when he saw the same thing.

"Your heavy weapons teams are nearly out of ammo; you spent most of what you had staving off the Rebs' BMPs!" the runner explained.

"Shit…" Stackhouse moved to run a hand through his hair, but remembered that he was wearing a helmet, letting his arm drop back to the ground. "Alright, get back to HQ; I'll handle things from here!"

"Yes, sir!" the runner was gone so fast that he almost left an image of himself in the air.

Captain Stackhouse activated his COM and got back into contact with his platoon leaders, informing them of the impending retreat. 1st and 3rd Battalion held out for another minute to give Battalion HQ a chance to pack up and go. As if the whole thing was timed, the familiar, telltale screech of UNSC artillery filled the air. The whistling noise was faint as first, but it intensified as it arced through the air and neared its target.

"That's our cue," Stackhouse nodded to Lieutenant Young. The exec got onto the COM with the platoon leaders, ordering them to fall back while Captain Stackhouse screamed the order at the top of his lungs.

The cry of "_Fall back!_" was echoed down the line as the marines received the order, both from their platoon leaders and their noncoms. The thousand-odd marines of the combined 1st and 3rd Battalions of the 54th Regiment broke cover with a collective shout and scrambled out of their foxholes, sprinting the two kilometers back to 3rd Division's lines at Côte d'Azur as if the Devil himself were nipping at their heels. All things considered, he was.

Captain Stackhouse was among the last marines to abandon the picket line; it was customary for officers to bring up the rear of a retreat. That was one of the flipsides of wearing bars, clusters, birds, or stars on your shoulder straps; if your unit had to get the hell out of where it was, _you_ would be the last to leave. Despite the ramifications of that concept, none of the officers took it at its face value. They knew it was a part of their duty and left it at that. Even if it were not protocol for officers to be the last to leave a battlefield, how would a leader's men view him if that leader was the _first_ to skedaddle? Not very well.

Stackhouse tapped Lieutenant Young on the shoulder, signaling him that he was ready to move.

India Company's commander and his exec jumped out of their foxhole along with the PFC from 1st Battalion. The threesome set off across the grassy expanse after the rest of the retreating marines.

Stackhouse ran for all he was worth, slinging his MA6A over his shoulder. He ran and ran and ran until he caught up with the rest of the marines from the 54th. He slowed his pace then; he did not want to reach the lines before they did. A sidelong glance showed him Captain Bridges and Captain Finch bringing up the rear exactly like him, as well as the three company commanders of 1st Battalion.

As the marines ran from the picket line, UNSC artillery began to rain down upon the Insurrectionist positions. Stackhouse could see why Armistead would want to get everyone moving before the barrage commenced; many shells from the barrage slammed into the picket line as well as the Insurrectionist, though there were no longer any marines there to be counted as victims of friendly fire.

Insurrectionist counterbattery-fire boomed in the distance as the enemy responded to General Harrington's wrath. Captain Stackhouse didn't mind a bit. If the Rebs wanted to go and try to knock out General Harrington's artillery, they were welcome to. As long as they weren't trying to shred his men, he didn't care.

Though the Insurrectionists were forced down into cover by the UNSC barrage, that didn't prevent a good portion of them from opening fire at the retreating marines. Men and women would stumble and fall in mid-stride, brought down by a stray bullet. Only a small select few were killed in the retreat, but a good number of men and women received superficial wounds.

As Stackhouse, Young, and the PFC from 1st Battalion were running towards Côte d'Azur, a stray burst of heavy machinegun-fire ripped up the earth around the threesome. Lieutenant Young let out a startled yelp as he stumbled and fell. After the exec hit the ground, the pain of the wound registered in his mind and the swearing started.

Lieutenant Young shouted and screamed quite a few choice expletives and oaths, using everything in the book and probably a few more which he invented on the spot. "Jesus fuckin' H, I got shot up my ass!" the exec finally shouted after the initial gibberish subsided. "My ass! My motherfuckin' _ass_, of all places! Goddamn, no-good pieces of-"

The exec kept right on swearing as Captain Stackhouse tended to him. The company commander found the entry wound on one side of Lieutenant Young's derriere and the exit wound on the other side. "Holy shit, Hiram; I think you may have just gotten four holes out of one bullet!" Stackhouse laughed out loud in spite of himself.

Lieutenant Young's suggestion of what Captain Stackhouse could do with himself was immoral, vile, and completely against regulations. Nevertheless, Stackhouse patted his exec down and found the lieutenant's morphine shot. Stackhouse opened the shot and stuck the exec, emptying the pain suppressant into Young's system.

"Grab his other shoulder!" Captain Stackhouse said to the PFC from 1st Battalion as he grabbed Lieutenant Young's left arm, hauling his exec to his feet. The PFC supported Young's other shoulder and together the PFC and Stackhouse helped Lieutenant Young the rest of the way to the lines outside of Côte d'Azur.

Several times, weaponsfire nearly took a chunk out of Stackhouse and the PFC, but they proved themselves to be luckier than the executive officer of India Company.

As Stackhouse and the PFC reached 3rd Division's defense network of trenches, foxholes, and fortifications, Lieutenant Young's swearing began to subside a little bit. "God damn it all…" the exec moaned as a pair of corpsmen bearing a stretcher hurried up to him. "Battle was just getting started and I'm going to have to spend a century on the shelf…"

"Take it easy, sir," one of the corpsmen said as he helped Lieutenant Young onto the stretcher, lying the exec down on his stomach.

"1st Sergeant Haywood will fill in for you while you're gone," Stackhouse reassured his exec. "He'll do a good job; don't worry about a thing."

"I _know_, damn it," Young muttered. "It's just that I hoped to last longer than Day One…"

"Don't we all…" Captain Stackhouse murmured, more to himself than to his exec.

"We'll take him from here, sir," one of the corpsmen said to Captain Stackhouse as he and his comrade lifted the stretcher with Young on it and headed off in the direction of the nearest field hospital.

Captain Stackhouse made his way through the crowd of marines reporting to their positions, searching for 3rd Battalion HQ. Major Rawlins had set up shop a few hundred meters behind 3rd Division's lines, not far from Colonel Halpern's Regimental HQ.

"Orders, sir?" Captain Stackhouse asked Major Rawlins as he strode right into Battalion HQ, saluting Captain Finch as he went. H Company's commander was on his way out.

Major Rawlins was poring over a smaller-sized holo-table in the center of his CP. He looked up at Stackhouse and snapped hi subordinate a quick salute. "Glad to see you in one piece, James," the battalion commander sighed. "How's your company holding up?

"Not too badly…" Stackhouse shrugged, which could mean anything in military-talk. "One of my platoon lieutenants is KIA, along with twenty-some of my men. I have forty-six wounded, eighteen of which are severe; the rest will be back on the line in a few days. Lieutenant Young, my executive officer, was also hit; he'll be out of commission for a week or two."

Major Rawlins nodded wearily. Stackhouse couldn't say so for sure, but he was fairly certain that it was almost a requirement for all battalion commanders to be exhausted; Rawlins had had dark circles under his eyes for as long as Stackhouse had served under him.

"I've heard similar stories from Bridges and Finch," the battalion commander said. "Neither lost their exec, though; that is very unfortunate for you. However…" Rawlins could only shrug, "…the war goes on."

"That it does," Stackhouse sighed in agreement. "Question: have you seen or heard anything of that Spartan—Tyrone, I think his name was—who you sent with us? He stayed behind in the forest to allow my company to escape to the picket line, but I haven't seen him since."

Rawlins shook his head. "No, I haven't heard anything. I'll keep my eyes peeled, but that's all I can promise you."

"Sir," Stackhouse nodded.

As the company commander turned to leave, Major Rawlins's COM crackled to life. Colonel Halpern's voice issued forth, saying, "All battalion commanders, this is Colonel Halpern. Aerial recon has spotted large amounts of Insurrectionist armor swinging down from the east towards our lines. This is real armor, not just BMPs; I'm talking tanks. Shore up your defenses and get ready; we're in for a whipping."

"Well," Major Rawlins hollered after Captain Stackhouse, "There are your orders!"

Stackhouse acknowledged with a half-hearted wave. The company commander made his way back through the trenches and foxholes until he reached the space where his company was stationed.

1st Sergeant Haywood was waiting for him. The senior NCO was directing a heavy machinegun team to set up its mount on an appropriate spot on the front of a foxhole when Stackhouse arrived.

"Captain," Haywood snapped Stackhouse a salute, adhering to protocol.

"1st Sergeant Haywood," Stackhouse returned the salute, getting right down to brass tacks. "As of now, you will be acting as my executive officer, effective immediately. Lieutenant Young got hit; he'll be on the shelf for a while."

"Will do, sir," Haywood nodded. "What are your orders?"

"We have Insurrectionist armor bucking right for us," Stackhouse informed his new exec. "Get the men ready."

"Yes, sir."

As the 1st Sergeant turned and walked away, Captain Stackhouse was left alone. The company commander wished he had a cigarette on him, but he had smoked his last on Irivet V; he made a mental note to pay a visit to supply to get more.

The sky was a dark gray, even though it was midday. The clouds were swollen, as if they were holding their breath.

_Storm coming_...

There was a tension in the air, a sort of deep breath before the plunge. Sure, there was already heavy fighting east of Côte d'Azur, but that fighting hadn't touched 3rd Division's lines. The battle at the picket line had been nothing. That was just an appetizer, a small taste of what was to come. The main course was heading right for 3rd Division's lines from the southeast in the form of tanks and several regiments, possibly divisions, of Insurrectionist soldiers.

Stackhouse was no defeatist, but he was a realist. He observed 3rd Division's lines, and then gazed through his field glasses at the forces the Insurrectionists had arrayed against the UNSC division. Not for the first time, his confidence in a UNSC victory was sorely shaken.


	50. Chapter 49: Rambo

Chapter Forty-Nine: Rambo

**1817 Hours, November 17, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Days Later)  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**10 kilometers southeast of Côte d'Azur, Alsace**

…_five, six_… Tyrone-G083 lowered his field glasses after he finished counting. Well, the field glasses technically _weren't_ his, but the Insurrectionist officer who had used them previously would no longer be needing them.

The heavily muscled, dark-skinned Spartan-III shifted uncomfortably in the underbrush which layered the entire ground level of the rainforests surrounding Côte d'Azur. The rainforests were not perfectly flat as most people would believe forests to be. Had there been no trees present, the land would have comprised of numerous rolling hills. These hills being covered in trees and underbrush downplayed that image.

Tyrone was holed up at the top of one of those hills, and the Insurrectionist party he was tracking was moving through the trough between Tyrone's hill and an adjacent one, allowing the Spartan to easily spy on them.

The party of Insurrectionists numbered twenty or so men. Tyrone had been moving with them for close to an hour as they made their way from the front lines at Côte d'Azur with a group of six captured UNSC marines from the First Expeditionary Force's 3rd Division, taken prisoner during a trench raid. No doubt the Insurrectionists intended to interrogate them and learn what they could from them about the First Expeditionary Force's positions.

Tyrone did not intend to allow that to happen.

The Spartan had been trapped in the rainforest behind enemy lines ever since the company he had been with had had a run-in with a battalion of Magisterial Guardsmen. Tyrone had to refer to the guardsmen as Insurrectionists or 'Rebs' while in the presence of the UNSC marines; it was not common knowledge that the Insurrectionist soldiers were called Magisterial Guardsmen, or that the Insurrectionist nation was known as the 'Magistarium'. No doubt the UNSC was piecing together the puzzle from Insurrectionist prisoners, but again; it was not common knowledge.

Back to reality. Though Tyrone was trapped behind enemy lines, that did not mean that he was pinned down or limited to a small area. He could go and roam wherever he pleased; the problem was that he was unable to bypass the Insurrectionist lines at Côte d'Azur to rejoin the UNSC forces desperately trying to hold the city. Since he could not do that, he had resorted to small, solo guerilla strikes against similar parties of Insurrectionist troops. Those attacks had kept him fed and supplied, but other than that they had no real impact on the fate of the universe.

Tyrone took another look through the field glasses at the UNSC prisoners, this time counting the soldiers escorting them. He counted exactly eighteen. That was kind of on the hefty side for a prisoner escort party, but the Insurrectionists definitely had enough troops to spare.

Tyrone stowed the field glasses away onto his magnetic 'belt' which was integrated into the waist of his MJOLNIR. He then reached over and grabbed his helmet, placing it over his head and sealing it. He polarized the faceplate, rendering him faceless to the outside world.

The Spartan slowly made his way down the hill, stepping in patches of ground which did not have twigs or anything else that would make noise when trodden on. Luckily there were no leaves on the ground, despite the fact that it was well into autumn; the trees of the rainforest obviously kept their greenery year-round.

Tyrone had never been one much for stealth. Even during the Great War or during his training on Onyx, the large Spartan had always reigned supreme in the department of charging into a battle, head down and guns ablaze, but he had never been very good at stealth. Back during the Great War when Tyrone had been in command of Team Rapier, he had always left the task of stealth to Sam-G113, the team's de facto scout, and occasionally he'd send Alex or Robin-G227—rest his soul—with her. He and Em-G132, the heavy weapons specialist—rest her soul as well—had always opted to remain behind in reserve for stealth missions.

However, Fate did not care one bit about Tyrone's strengths and weaknesses. Tyrone now slid down the hillside with reasonable silence. None of the Insurrectionist soldiers reacted to his presence, so Tyrone's skill at stealth must have been just good enough.

Tyrone reached the base of his hill as the party of Insurrectionists and their prisoners were drawing near, close enough for Tyrone to hear them.

"I still don't understand why _we_ have to be the ones to get pulled to escort these shitheads back to command," one of the soldiers was grumbling.

"I'd watch your tongue, Reggins," another soldier advised the griping one. "A commissar'll probably shoot it out if you don't."

"I know," the complainer—Reggins—sighed. "Still, is it too much to ask to be allowed to kill the UNSC bastards defending that city? Hell, why do we even _need_ that city so bad? What's so important about it that the higher-ups would send an entire _army group_ against it?"

"Alright, Reggins, that's enough for one day," a third Insurrectionist, clearly the squad leader, shut the complainer up.

The six downtrodden UNSC prisoners wisely did not utter a word. They kept on walking in step with their captors, their eyes turned down to the ground, their mouths thin, hard lines. Their pride had been severely shaken and they wanted revenge, but they were also too smart to try to take it.

Tyrone reached down and drew his magnum from the holster on his leg. He screwed on the silencer and flicked off the safety, laying in wait.

The party of Insurrectionists began to walk by. After the complainer had been silenced, none of the Insurrectionists were really talking all that much. They passed in silence. Well, they _almost_ passed by in silence; they didn't talk, but Tyrone didn't let them go very far.

The Insurrectionists were just beginning to move away from Tyrone's spot at the foot of the hill when the Spartan struck.

Tyrone dropped the rearmost Insurrectionist with a carefully aimed shot to the back of the head. The soldier dropped without a sound. Tyrone adjusted his aim and took out two more before the Insurrectionists were made aware that something was terribly wrong.

"What the hell was that?!" the squad leader shouted.

"I didn't hear a thing!" another soldier said.

"Fan out! Keep your weapons at the ready!"

The UNSC prisoners cast each other well-concealed glances, murmuring quietly amongst themselves. One of the nearest Insurrectionist soldiers brutally clubbed one of the marines in the back with his rifle, effectively shutting him up.

Tyrone moved to take aim with his sidearm once more, but he hesitated. Why was he hiding in the bushes when he could just as easily dispatch them all close-up? So what if he got shot a few times; that's what his energy shields were for. Tyrone waited until the Insurrectionists' backs were turned before breaking cover and leaping out of the underbrush.

He pulled his shotgun from his back as he ran, racking the pump and loading a shell into the chamber. Tyrone squeezed the trigger. The shotgun roared to life, propelling an 8-gauge shell out of the barrel and into the air. The spray caught an Insurrectionist in the full of his back, dropping him where he stood. The rack pumped and the shotgun bucked again, hitting a second soldier.

As Tyrone continued to run, the Insurrectionists took notice of him by then. Tyrone felt a bullet slam into his chest, another into his face, and another few into his legs. His energy shields shimmered as they absorbed the weaponsfire, protecting him from the wounds the bullets would cause. Sure maybe it was cheating, but warfare was never about being fair.

Tyrone emptied a third shell into the next closest Insurrectionist, but he could no longer keep moving in a straight path; his shields would be drained in no time if he did that. Instead, the Spartan zigzagged, leaping from side to side, evading a good amount of the weaponsfire the panicking Insurrectionists were firing at him.

Tyrone was faintly aware of the UNSC prisoners attacking several of the Insurrectionists, taking them by surprise, but the Spartan was not able to pay strict attention to it. He had other matters to attend to.

Tyrone moved in close to an Insurrectionist who, as a doomed last resort, tried to smash his rifle butt into Tyrone's faceplate. The Spartan kept himself from giggling; the Insurrectionist was about to die and he didn't want the man to go out with someone laughing at his fruitless efforts.

The Spartan stopped the rifle by letting go of his shotgun with one of his hands and grabbing the rifle butt with it. Tyrone ripped the rifle away and effortlessly snapped the Insurrectionist's neck with a sharp chopping strike.

"Fuck this, I'm getting out of here!" one of the Insurrectionist soldiers exclaimed. Tyrone recognized his voice as that of Reggins, the complainer. Reggins broke off and skedaddled. Four others joined him.

Tyrone was sure they would have been shot had one of their officers or commissars been present, but now they could get away with it. They would probably get back to the front lines and deny ever having been sent out with prisoners.

The remaining six continued to fight, and they paid for it.

As Tyrone dispatched another pair of Magisterial Guardsmen, the UNSC prisoners continued to fight the other four, desperately trying to keep the other soldiers from using their weapons.

Tyrone finally managed to clasp the heads of both of the soldiers attacking him and bring them crashing together with a sickening crunch. The two soldiers fell like ragdolls.

One of the UNSC prisoners, a large, burly staff sergeant judging by his stripes, managed to wrestle another Insurrectionist's weapon away. The staff sergeant quickly shot the man in the chest and drew a bead on the other three.

One of the Insurrectionists at the same time managed to throw off the marine assaulting him. He quickly swung his rifle around and took aim at the downed marine. Tyrone thought fast; he did not have enough time to draw his magnum and a spray from his shotgun would likely hit the downed marines as well, so Tyrone improvised with the nearest weapon he had on hand.

The Spartan quickly grabbed a good-sized rock from the ground and hurled it with all his strength. The rock shot through the air and struck the Insurrectionist in the head, resulting in a crunching noise and a spray of blood. The rock might as well have been a bullet; it killed the Insurrectionist as easily as a bullet fired from a gun would have.

The last two Insurrectionists saw that the odds were somewhat stacked against them and threw down their rifles, lowering themselves to their knees with the hands held high. "Aight, aight…you got us…" one of the Magisterial Guardsmen muttered, the words catching in his throat as if they were physically painful to say.

"Sorry. We're full," the staff sergeant replied. Then he shot both of the Insurrectionists in the chest at point blank. The two Magisterial Guardsmen were thrown back by the force of the rifle firing into them at point blank range, writhing for a few last moments before they stopped breathing.

"You alright, Lenny?" the staff sergeant extended a hand to the marine who had been clubbed during Tyrone's attack.

The bruised marine—Lenny—gratefully took the noncom's hand and pulled himself up to his feet. "Yeah, sir, I'm fine," he said. "It could be worse."

The staff sergeant, satisfied that his man was doing fine, sidled over to Tyrone, sizing him up as he held out a hand. "Well, Spartan, I suppose I owe you a thank-you," the noncom declared. "Probably not the first one you've gotten in your lifetime."

"If our positions were reversed, I'm sure you would have done the same," Tyrone replied, shaking the staff sergeant's hand. "No thanks necessary; I've had my bacon saved dozens of times during the Great War."

"Never gets old, does it," the noncom agreed.

Tyrone wasted no time getting down to business with the newly-liberated prisoners. "Alright, we're going to have to move fast. Odds are the five who got away won't go blabbing to their superiors about what happened here; if they did, they'd probably get sent straight to a firing squad. However, it's only a matter of time until their command notices that the prisoners they were expecting never arrived. I want to be far away when they realize that."

"So…" one of the marines—a short, impish-looking man with the beginnings of a goatee bristling on his chin—asked the golden question: "Now what?"

"_Now_, I need two of you to grab their uniforms and put 'em on," Tyrone said.

"Sir?" the short marine cocked his head, not sure if he heard Tyrone clearly.

"You heard him, Rice, and thanks for volunteering," the staff sergeant barked. "Bum a uniform off of one of the corpses and get dressed. Cunningham, you grab one too."

The two indicated UNSC former-prisoners—Rice and Cunningham—both let out sighs of distaste and resignation, but they carried out Tyrone's request. Within five minutes, Tyrone was standing with four UNSC marines and two Insurrectionist soldiers.

"Alright, now grab their weapons and ammo," Tyrone said to Rice and Cunningham, gesturing to the Insurrectionist rifles littering the ground. As the two marines dressed in Insurrectionist gray complied, the other four marines looted several of the other Insurrectionist corpses, each taking a sidearm pistol and tucking it away in a pocket, just in case things went south and they needed something to shoot.

Tyrone waited for the six marines to finish before telling them to follow him. The Spartan turned away and started to move through the underbrush and trees, heading north.

The marines all followed him, remaining silent at first. After the first few minutes, the staff sergeant's curiosity claimed victory over his silence. "Sir, pardon my french, but what the hell is our plan? Other than not getting shot?"

Tyrone gave the man a quick sidelong glance. The noncom was an older man, probably on the sunny side of forty. He was probably a Great War vet; there were a fair amount of marines who had fought the Covenant serving with the UNSC this time around, either pulled from the reserves or called up into the service back when the Insurrectionists began to attack small, far-away UNSC colonies.

Tyrone obliged the man's curiosity and that of his men. "The Rebs have a compound two klicks to the north; it looks like a supply depot. It's not a command center; it's too far behind the line to be a Division or Corps CP, and it's not big enough to be an Army command center."

The marines all gave quick nods, bearing with Tyrone as the Spartan continued to explain his plans. "We need to get through the Rebs' lines and get back to Côte d'Azur. We can't survive out here in the forests for too long; eventually we'll get hunted down."

"So then how are we supposed to bypass their lines?" the staff sergeant asked. "It's not as if the Rebs have only a few guards strutting around between us and the city."

Tyrone chuckled quietly. It was a low, quiet laugh, one without humor. "If I could have bypassed their lines I would have done it two days ago. I can only think of one good way to get through their lines, and here's the kicker; I need you a lot more than you need me."

_That_ got the marines' full, undivided attention.

"We're listening," the staff sergeant said.

"I want to steal a command car from their supply depot," Tyrone said, keeping up the pace. The Spartan glanced up into the sky, trying to will the sun to go down a little slower; he did not want to execute his plans in the dark. As it was, the sky was a dark gray, as it had been for the past three or four days. A large storm was rolling in from the ocean, but it had yet to hit the area. Weather on Sigma Octanus IV really took its time moving across the planet, but when it hit a place with a rainstorm, especially on the west coast of the Alsace landmass, it could last for a long time.

The marines paid the sun no heed. It would keep on moving regardless of how much Tyrone would prefer it didn't. "Why can't you do that yourself?" Cunningham, one of the disguised marines, asked. He hastily added, "No offence, or anything, just curious."

Tyrone took no offence; he perfectly understood Cunningham's question. "I'm not invincible; if I were to stride into that depot and try to steal a car I'd get torn to shreds. I can't disguise myself either; I'm a little on the tall side, as people go. Besides, being black _always_ makes people glance twice. And besides, even if I _could_ fit in, I would never leave my MJOLNIR out here in the forests for the Insurrectionists to find. Now that I have you…"

The staff sergeant caught wind of the Spartan's plan, nodding to himself as he saw the sense of it. "Dressed up in their uniforms, _we_ look like any other Reb soldier."

Tyrone nodded. "All they will see are two of their own escorting four prisoners, acting under orders from their command. You men can pull something like that off; I can't."

The marines had enough time to take the whole thing in and mull it over. The rest of the walk to the Insurrectionist supply depot took forty-five minutes. It would have taken a shorter amount of time, but Tyrone and the six marines had to hide from the occasional patrol, as well as take detours around steep hills and wide streams.

When Tyrone thrust his fist into the air and hunkered down at the edge of one last hill, it had gotten dark enough to require lights to see clearly. Tyrone had lights on his MOJLNIR armor, but he dared not use them for fear of being spotted by an Insurrectionist soldier who—with his luck—would probably be looking his way.

The marines all joined Tyrone down on the ground. The staff sergeant shimmied his way up next to the Spartan and took a look for himself at the Insurrectionist supply depot.

The trees were thinner in this area of the rainforest. There was a large clearing at the bottom of the hill and the supply depot was established in that clearing. It consisted of a handful of buildings no doubt stocked with munitions and supplies for the Insurrectionist armies. There was also a good amount of transport vehicles, whose purpose was no doubt to run off supplies to the troops on the front lines. Tyrone ignored those vehicles, though; his gaze settled instead on a command car parked near one of the buildings. The vehicle was a tan-colored humvee-model, with an armored exoskeleton and a mounted M41 LAAG turret on the top, which the gunner would use by standing up in the armored car's interior and grabbing hold of the turret's mount.

A perfect escape vehicle.

Tyrone made a mental note of the exact location of the supply depot; the air wing attached to the First Expeditionary Force would be interested in knowing. A squadron of shortsword bombers would ruin this place's day.

"Alright," Tyrone passed his set of field glasses over to the staff sergeant. "See that command car by the furthest building to the left?"

"Mm-hmm," the staff sergeant grunted, shifting his gaze over to the place where Tyrone had indicated. The noncom passed the field glasses to Rice and Cunningham, who both looked for themselves.

"Your objective is simple; get to that car," Tyrone said, wasting no time on fancy and unneeded speech. He was talking to grown men in the UNSC Marine Corps; they didn't need the plan laid out for them detail for detail. "Rice, Cunningham; you have the Reb uniforms, so you'll make as if you're escorting your friends to questioning."

"Sir, what if they ask us things?" Cunningham asked, voicing a growing concern of his. "Things like who we are, who we got our orders from, where we captured these prisoners, who we're taking them to? Things like that? What do we do then?"

"Improvise," Tyrone said. "Remember; you're not trying to infiltrate them or gain their trust; all you need to do is get into the command car. Once you get to the car, you're home free. If someone starts asking you questions, try to answer them. If he blows the whistle on you…well, you may have to start shooting early, but when you do you _get_ to that command car immediately. Hell, if you're close to the car and someone starts shouting at you, ignore the bastard and just keep right on going."

"Alright…" Cunningham sounded somewhat satisfied.

Tyrone pointed off to the east of the supply depot. "I'll be hiding out in the underbrush over in that area," he said to the marines. "When you clear the depot, stop by there. Don't bother looking for me; I'll come to you. Please, _please_ don't drive off without me."

"Don't worry, we have good memories," one of the marines quipped.

"Alright, then," Tyrone nodded. "I need a chance to get to the rendezvous zone. Wait for half an hour before proceeding. Good luck."

With that, Tyrone crawled back away from the marines and headed off into the forest, leaving the marines on their own.

The Spartan made his way through the trees and underbrush as fast as he could without disturbing too much or causing too much noise. He headed northeast, curving around the southern edges of the supply depot in a wide arc.

This whole stealthy moving-through-the-forest ordeal reminded Tyrone greatly of his training on Onyx. On the ONI planet, the Spartans of Gamma Company would participate in battle simulations against each other, pitting team against team. Team Rapier, the team of five Spartan-IIIs of whom Tyrone had been a part of—and in command of—had won a good amount of simulations, but they had still lost their fair share. That wasn't to say Tyrone's team was substandard, quite the opposite; it meant the entire company had been on even terms with itself.

Even better than those simulations had been the Class-12 training ops; training operations which had pitted the Spartans of Gamma Company against a battalion of marines. That had required a good deal of stealth. Stealth had been even more vital in those ops; the marines of that battalion had been beaten time and time again by those Spartans. They didn't harbor what people would call 'rosy feelings' towards ONI's freaks.

Tyrone remembered one such op where Gamma Company had to retrieve a flag which had been placed right near the marines' Battalion HQ. He had been just a week shy of his twelfth birthday at the time. During that op, the marines had used scorpion tanks and live ammo against the Spartans. His team had been forced to act as the company's ace in the hole while the rest of Gamma Company wheeled around and attacked the marines from the rear.

That was similar to what he was doing now. Not identical, but somewhat similar. He was wheeling around, but he wasn't attacking; he was waiting. What was similar was sending the marines into the lion's den to accomplish his objective.

During the op which Tyrone was recalling, he had sent Alex-G004—his team's sniper and his oldest still-living friend—into the marines' battalion HQ compound to be purposefully captured in order to scout the compound out. It had taken Tyrone a while to forgive himself for that. Alex had been severely beaten by the marines there. When Tyrone and his team had gotten Alex out, the then-eleven-year-old sharpshooter had had a shattered arm, a fractured collarbone, two broken wrists, and several other injuries. The marines had claimed that he had fallen down the stairs.

The stockades which Alex had been held in had been a single-story complex, and marines had used that very same excuse—Tyrone later learned—when they did more or less the same thing to a captured Spartan-II on Reach back before the war. Not very many originality points for them in that case.

Tyrone shook his head, dragging himself back to reality. He found himself a good spot up in a tree and waited, counting the minutes as they slid by. The Spartan checked the time on his HUD frequently until, finally, the half-hour time limit which he had set passed.

Tyrone pulled out his field glasses and peered through them, scanning through the supply depot until he caught sight of his marine friends. Sure enough, they were coming out of the forest to the south of the depot. Tyrone could see Rice and Cunningham walking behind the staff sergeant and the other three marines, both of them walking with their rifles raised and aimed right at the other four marines. The staff sergeant and the three other marines whose names Tyrone did not know walked like prisoners; slow and dejected. Occasionally Cunningham or Rice would lash out and 'hit' one of their comrades with their rifles to move them faster. Tyrone silently praised them for that; they were doing everything they could to make their ploy seem more realistic.

Those marines would have been excellent actors had there not been a war on. Tyrone watched their progress as they made their way across the Insurrectionist supply depot, steering clear of other Insurrectionist soldiers and officers. Everything was going perfectly.

Then an officer finally challenged Cunningham and Rice. They kept moving towards the command car, though, until the officer barked a few orders and a pair of armed guards quick-stepped it over. Rice broke away from the rest of the group to converse with the officer. As they spoke, Cunningham discreetly continued to edge away.

"Come on…" Tyrone breathed. "Get the hell out of there…"

Rice and the officer continued talking for another full two minutes. The officer, judging by his expression, didn't appear to be buying whatever Rice was telling him. He said a few more things before turning on his heel and vanishing into the building in front of which the command car was parked.

The two guards approached Rice, who began to turn over his rifle. As he did so, Cunningham suddenly brought his rifle about and fired twice, dropping both guards before they knew what had hit them.

Tyrone could hear them shouting and yelling after Cunningham did the deed, sprinting towards the command car. The other Insurrectionist soldiers stationed in an around the supply depot reacted to the weaponsfire pretty fast. They dove to the ground instantly, instinct taking over their body before their senses did. That was not a bad thing; quite the contrary. When instinct takes over for a soldier like that, he's more likely to survive a battle.

The Insurrectionists recovered and began to open fire at the fleeing marines. Tyrone watched the staff sergeant reach the command car and rip open the door to the driver's seat, clambering inside. The other three marines still clad in UNSC green-black battledress piled into the back seats. As Tyrone watched, one of the marines wearing Insurrectionist uniforms—Rice—stumbled suddenly and fell, blood pouring down his back.

"_Shit_…" the Spartan whispered.

The marines at the command car most likely also said a few things along the same lines as Tyrone. The other disguised marine—Cunningham—tossed his rifle into the car and hurried over to his fallen comrade, hoisting him up and supporting him by the shoulder. Cunningham gently laid Rice into the car and climbed in himself, slamming the doors shut.

The command car hummed to life, even though Tyrone couldn't hear it do so over the gunfire erupting all over the supply depot.

The command car maneuvered its way through the supply depot and sped away into the forests, forcing several Insurrectionist soldiers to hurriedly dive out of the way to avoid being splattered.

The staff sergeant held true to his word; he drove the command car straight into the rainforest and brought it to a stop several hundred meters away from where Tyrone was waiting. The Spartan dropped out of the tree and hit the ground running. He made his way towards the command car as fast as he could; the Insurrectionists were bound to be mounting a pursuit force.

Sure enough, by the time Tyrone made it to the command car, he could clearly hear the hum of warthog engines, growling louder in a building crescendo as the Insurrectionist vehicles drew near.

"Move it!" the staff sergeant practically screamed from the driver's seat. One of the marines pushed open one of the back doors, allowing Tyrone to dive inside.

The staff sergeant pounded down on the power pedal like the fate of the universe depended on it, sending the command car lurching forward, swerving between the trees where the spaces were the widest.

Tyrone pushed open the hatch in the roof of the command car and stood up, poking his head and torso out of the top of the car. He grabbed hold of the mounted M41 LAAG turret and swiveled it around to cover the command car's rear. He pressed down on the triggers and let the turret spin up, but didn't open fire yet.

Private Rice, the disguised marine who had been shot in the back, was thrashing in the rearmost seat as the pain of his wounds fully registered in his mind.

"Someone shut him up!" the noncom shouted from up front. "Orson, give him your morphine!"

The stocky marine restraining Rice in the back seat fumbled around in one of the pockets in his battle armor, producing his morphine needle and sticking the wounded marine right near the bullet holes in his back.

Rice's cries quickly quieted down as the pain-suppressing narcotic worked its way into his system.

"How're you holdin' up, kid?" the staff sergeant hollered over.

"Hurts like a mother, sir, but I'll be fine," Rice, his voice shaky and slurred, replied, still retaining enough awareness not to completely swear in front of his superior.

"Hang in there," Tyrone said. "We'll get you to a field hospital the minute we get back to our lines."

"Incoming!" Orson, who had a view out of the rear window, shouted suddenly.

Tyrone ducked as the staff sergeant drove between two trees with low-lying branches, straightening back up in time to be greeted with a hail of heavy weaponsfire from a group of Insurrectionist warthogs. Tyrone spun the turret back up and let loose, unleashing the full fury of the M41 LAAG on the enemy vehicles.

The Insurrectionists driving the warthogs were certainly skilled at what they were doing; they were able to maneuver through the forest faster and easier than the command car. The hail of bullets their turrets were spitting out sailed through the forest, clanking off of the command car's armor.

Tyrone aimed at the nearest warthog, which was drawing up on the command car's right side. The M41 LAAG spat death at the enemy warthog. The storm of bullets ripped through the trees, sending splinters and pieces of wood flying everywhere. Oddly enough, one of the thoughts flashing through Tyrone's head at that time was how negatively the environmentalists would take this, had they been present. That was enough to make the Spartan almost giggle.

A few rounds from an enemy warthog's turret managed to strike Tyrone in the upper chest, but his energy shields flared up, absorbing the fire and protecting him from harm. Had one of the marines been manning the command car's LAAG, that man would now be dead.

Tyrone kept up the fire on the warthog to the right of the command car. The staff sergeant at the command car's wheel did all he could to make it harder for the warthogs to shoot at them, but he could only do so much. The rest was up to Tyrone at the gunner position.

Tyrone did not relent with his LAAG. With the command car moving as fast as it was, Tyrone ended up ripping up trees more than he hit the enemy warthogs. Finally, he scored a hit on the lead warthog's front tires, perforating them. The Insurrectionist warthog spun out of control and slammed into a tree, exploding in a good-sized fireball which lit up the evening.

It was a victory, though it was only a fleeting one. There were still three more warthogs coming up on the command car's rear.

"Scratch one!" Tyrone shouted.

"Good hit!" Cunningham exclaimed.

"Keep it up!" the staff sergeant added, though he kept his attention firmly glued to the forest ahead of him, his path illuminated by the dull, ambient light of what little sunlight still managed to penetrate the clouds and, more so, by the headlights.

"Uh-huh," Tyrone swiveled the LAAG over to the other side and opened up on another warthog which was drawing up alongside the armored car. _What I wouldn't give for a Gauss cannon_, the Spartan thought to himself as he exchanged fire with the warthog.

Tyrone's energy shields began to flare up more often than not as the other two warthogs drew up closer to the command car, both of their turrets adding to the onslaught. Tyrone mentally recanted his earlier statement that he needed the marines more than they needed him. Without him, the marines would never have made it a kilometer away from the supply depot; the warthogs would have ripped them a whole slough of new assholes if Tyrone hadn't been there to man the command car's turret.

"How far out are we?!" Tyrone shouted down below to the staff sergeant.

"We're probably around five, six klicks out of Côte d'Azur!" the staff sergeant shouted back. "Ten minutes!"

Tyrone swore quietly. Ten minutes may well have been ten years if these warthogs kept at it. The Spartan kept right on firing at the pursuing warthogs. A marine or two opened fire from one of the command car's windows, but Tyrone highly doubted that it did an ounce of good.

One of the warthogs suddenly jerked to a stop, a smattering of small flames dancing about its engines. Tyrone had scored another hit. "Scratch two!" the Spartan announced, focusing on the next warthog.

For the next few minutes, nothing big really happened. The warthog gunners dueled with Tyrone, but neither party managed to gain the upper hand in the firefight.

Suddenly, a distant rushing noise filled the air. Not the gentle, omnipresent rushing noise of a slipspace transfer, but a harsher, sharper roar. The warthogs broke off the pursuit and retreated, heading back deeper into the forest towards the supply depot. Tyrone knew that noise; he had heard it time and time again during the Great War.

"Bogeys in the air!" Tyrone screamed, ducking down into the command car's interior and shutting the roof gunner hatch.

The staff sergeant managed to get out, "Holy _shi _-" before Hell rained down on them from the skies.

Tyrone could briefly see the squadron of Insurrectionist fighters flying in a close wedge formation before their payloads slammed into the forest below.

The whole ground shook as the rainforest was ripped apart by the force of the carpet bombs which the fighters had dropped. Trees exploded, turning into flying wood-chippers. Debris and other matter hit the command car from all sides, cracking the windows. One of the side windows actually burst, showering the inside of the command car with glass. One of the marines got a cut from the flying shards, but that was it.

For a moment it looked as if they would get through unscathed. Then, the second air strike came.

Tyrone heard the squadron of fighters making another pass before the world exploded all around him. The command car didn't get hit; if it had, Tyrone would no longer be existing. However, a bomb _did_ hit the ground close enough to send the command car flying. The armored vehicle was thrown off track and deflected off of a sturdy tree, flipping over and rolling several times before finally coming to a rest on its side.

The first thing Tyrone heard was his blood pumping in his ears as he regained consciousness. The doors on the side of the armored car which was facing up towards the sky had been ripped off. Tyrone let out a pained groan and pulled himself upright. He peered into the backseat and saw Orson and Rice. The Spartan didn't even bother checking their vitals. He swore quietly and climbed to his feet, heaving himself up and out of the vehicle.

The staff sergeant lay on the ground in front of the command car; he had been thrown through the windshield. The noncom let out a groan as well, intersperses with expletives and oaths as he sat up, holding his head.

"Sergeant?" Tyrone asked.

The staff sergeant got to his feet shakily, still clasping his head. "I'm…I'm fine," the noncom muttered. "I think I have a concussion the size of Zeus's divine nuts."

"Charming," Tyrone replied, his voice deadpan. The Spartan told the noncom about the fates of Orson and Rice.

The staff sergeant swore several more times. He shook his head and shrugged helplessly. "Well, we had gotten _this_ far unscathed; I figured something was wrong…"

If that wasn't cynicism in its purest and most righteous form, then global warming was a real threat, brutes were cuddly, and rocks could fly.

Tyrone found Cunningham, Powers, and Brody—the other three marines—several meters away from the crash site. All of them had been thrown from the command car before it had flipped and were, miraculously, all alive and relatively okay. Cunningham had a broken arm and Powers had a few cracked ribs, but other than that they were completely fine.

The Spartan brought them back to the command car.

"Well, this is great," Powers groaned when he saw the command car. "Just how in hell are we supposed to reach Côte d'Azur _now?_"

"Easy," Tyrone walked up to the overturned command car. He squatted down and gripped the base of the roof, which was touching the ground. He silently counted to himself. When he reached 'three' he heaved at the armored car, pushing and pulling with all his might and strength. He felt his muscles ripple and pop as they obeyed him. Gradually, Tyrone pulled the command car up further and further until it finally passed a critical point and rolled back onto its wheels.

The staff sergeant checked the engines and made a few repairs, which Private Brody—who seemed to have some sort of technical know-how with vehicles—checked and assisted with.

As the pair continued to work, Tyrone's ears perked up inside of his helmet. "You fellas hear that?" the Spartan asked, cocking his head and craning to hear better.

"Hear what?" Cunningham asked.

Tyrone said nothing. He listened. Yes, he could definitely hear it now; a sort of clanking, mechanical noise. It was getting louder every moment, so it moving towards them.

"I think we should hurry it along, gentlemen," the Spartan suggested, a barely detectable trace of unease creeping into his voice.

"Almost done," the staff sergeant replied. "We have to finish fixing the power cufflinks; they took a real beating."

Tyrone twiddled his thumbs for another minute as the staff sergeant and Private Brody worked until he heard a new sound.

This sound was somewhat suppressed due to its distance—it sounded more like a _crump_ than an all-out explosion, but Tyrone recognized that sound as well, and mentally cursed himself for not recognizing the sound he had heard earlier.

"Take cover!" Tyrone had just enough time to yell, for a group of trees then exploded into wooden splinters and flames.

"What the fuck?!" Cunningham exclaimed. "They have _armor_ out here, now?!"

The staff sergeant whispered to Brody and abandoned the engine, climbing into the driver seat. Brody worked like a madman for a few more seconds before he gave a final nod and pushed the hood down. "That's as good as it's gonna get," the marine said.

As he said that, Tyrone caught a glimpse of the source of the explosion; a handful of Insurrectionist tanks were advancing through the woods. These tanks were smaller tanks than the norm, able to slip through the trees with only moderate difficulty.

Tyrone dove into the command car's passenger seat up front as the staff sergeant started the engines. The three other marines hopped in as well. None of them manned the M41 LAAG turret; it wouldn't do a hell of a lot against tanks.

As the staff sergeant accelerated to the fastest possible speed in an environment like that rainforest, the tanks all opened fire at the command car. They were using high-explosive rounds, trying to block the command car's path; destroying it with a direct using an armor-piercing round would have been much more difficult.

The staff sergeant yanked the wheel to the left as a tree collapsed right in front of the speeding command car. As the command car barreled through the burning underbrush, one of the marines sitting in the back poked his head outside of the car and heaved his dinner out onto the ground. His stomach simply didn't want to put up with the insanity of dodging tank shots in a humvee.

"More of them, up ahead!" Tyrone warned, spotting another platoon of five enemy tanks.

"You gotta be fucking _kidding_ me!" the staff sergeant growled as he yanked the wheel again—this time to the right—to avoid the next barrage. They almost got through untouched; one of the tank shells managed to clip the back end of the command car, sending it spinning off track.

The staff sergeant battled with the laws of physics for control over the vehicle. His knuckles went bone-white as his grip on the wheel grew tighter than a boa constrictor's embrace. After a few harrowing seconds, the indomitable staff sergeant won the battle with the command car, wrenching it back on course.

"Deer!" Tyrone shouted next when he spotted a furry, white-spotted animal standing right in the command car's path. The deer looked up right into the oncoming vehicle…and froze.

"Sorry, bub!" the staff sergeant apologized to the deer as the command car slammed into the animal head on, leaving blood on the windshield and a not very recognizable corpse on the ground behind them.

"Why the hell are they going through all this effort to take us out?!" Cunningham exclaimed. "It's not as if we have an important-"

"They're doing it because they know _I'm_ with you," Tyrone explained, not condescendingly, but in a logical tone. "Hell, they'd level this entire forest with nukes to kill me and the other Spartans if not for the fact that doing so would also kill their entire army group."

The Insurrectionist tanks, though they tried their utmost and gave it more than their all, weren't able to hit the command car and simply weren't fast enough to keep up with it. The staff sergeant manipulated the wheel with the skill of a heavily experienced driver, taking the command car straight through two of the tanks in the platoon blocking the way ahead. Machinegun-fire from those tanks peppered the command car, but—thankfully—did not disable it again.

As the command car continued through the rainforest, it began to drive straight through infantry positions as it arrived at the Insurrectionists' front lines at the very edge of the forest and a short distance beyond.

The staff sergeant avoided trenches and foxholes; driving into one of them would have put the command car out of commission permanently, along with its occupants.

After surviving the tanks and the air strikes, though, breaking through the infantry lines was a cakewalk. Private Powers manned the M41 LAAG, brutally and efficiently dealing with anything or anyone who tried to stop them.

After another minute, Tyrone found himself looking out the windows and seeing nothing but quiet, uncontested-for land. It was the no-man's-land between the Insurrectionist and UNSC lines.

The staff sergeant continued to gun it for the UNSC lines, but before he could reach them Tyrone suddenly gripped the wheel and yanked it to the side. The command car swerved away, fishtailing across the ground. As it did so, a large explosion slammed into the ground where the command car had just been.

"Bail!" Tyrone shouted as the car screeched to a stop. "Everyone out!"

The marines obeyed instantly, getting to their feet and leaping out of the command car. Tyrone and the four marines made it roughly fifteen to twenty feet away when the command car erupted into a fireball, reducing it to twisted metal and molten slag.

"Our tanks think we're Rebs; they had us in our sights when we were booking it for our lines," Tyrone explained to the staff sergeant. "There was no time to explain that to you."

The veteran noncom threw up his hands and shrugged. "Hey, I ain't complaining."

Tyrone made sure everyone was okay before moving on. Just as he was starting to get a move on towards the UNSC lines, there was a sudden clatter of weaponsfire which cut through the night. The earth around Tyrone's feet was ripped up as bullets tore into it.

The silhouettes of a squad of UNSC marines appeared behind the burning wreck of the command car, their weapons raised and aimed at Tyrone and his four accomplices.

The leader of the UNSC squad stepped forward and called out, "Herring!"

When no one responded, the UNSC squad leader raised his weapons and repeated the challenge, his voice harsher and more forceful.

Tyrone rolled his eyes and stepped into the light cast by the fires of the burning wreck, revealing himself in all his glory as a large suit of MJOLNIR armor to the marines, who were visibly taken aback at the sudden appearance of a Spartan. "I don't know the goddamn countersign; looks like you'll have to shoot me."

"That…won't be necessary, sir," the squad leader stammered. He was probably going red with shock and embarrassment, but the darkness of night prevented all but Tyrone from seeing it.

"Well, that's good; we're off to a good start," Tyrone said, his voice dripping with mocking cheerfulness.

The squad of UNSC marines ended up escorting the staff sergeant and the other three liberated marines to his company's battalion CP. Tyrone did not join them.

The Spartan wandered through the network of trenches and dugouts which formed the UNSC lines southeast of Côte d'Azur until he found an abandoned mongoose. He hoped on and sped off into the city, heading straight for Command HQ. He reminded himself the location of the Insurrectionist supply dump as he traveled through the streets of Côte d'Azur, now completely empty of civilians.

He had an appointment with General McCandlish. He was going to make the Insurrectionists regret their inability to kill him when he had been trapped in the forest. He was going to make them pay for kidnapping Alex and Sam Ambrose's son. He was going to make them sorry for interrupting his life in Florida, which ended up in his getting pulled back into the UNSC military.

Tyrone smiled wolfishly. Oh yes, the Rebs would pay.


	51. Chapter 50: Red Tape

Chapter Fifty: Red Tape

**0224 Hours, November 18, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Elpis, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC **_**Blood and Iron**_

Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin had not set foot outside of the bridge of the _Blood and Iron_ for the past thirty-one hours. Before that, he had gone to his quarters and slept for four hours, which was all the sleep he had gotten since the Seventh Fleet had emerged in the Sigma Octanus System.

Now, Al-Hassin watched as the six surviving vessels in Rear Admiral Mackall's Battlegroup were engaged by a force of roughly twenty or so Insurrectionist frigates and cruisers.

"COM, contact Eisner and Fremont," Al-Hassin said to Ensign Rush, the communications officer. "Send their battlegroups over to reinforce Mackall; he's going to need their help."

"Aye, sir," Ensign Rush activated his station's master COM and relayed Al-Hassin's orders to the respective Battlegroup admirals.

As the orders were received, two groups of UNSC vessels broke off from their positions and moved across to join the embattled ships of Rear Admiral Mackall's Battlegroup. The bright flashes of MAC cannons firing were all too visible on the viewscreen.

As the bridge crew of the _Blood and Iron_ watched, one of the UNSC vessels exploded in a brilliant haze. The flames of the explosion vanished an instant later, starved by the vacuum of space.

"We've lost the _Origami,_ sir," Commander Tomlinson reported from the tactical station.

Admiral Al-Hassin swore under his breath. He had witnessed the destruction of many of his ships at the hands of the vastly superior—numerically, at least—Insurrectionist fleet for the past three days.

Three days ago when the Seventh Fleet had emerged into the Sigma Octanus System, Admiral Al-Hassin and his ships faced a small Insurrectionist fleet barring the way to the planet. Those Insurrectionists had been the ones who had abandoned Irivet V in favor of Sigma Octanus IV. The Seventh Fleet had smashed through the Insurrectionist barricade and was able to land the marines of the First Expeditionary Force. That was the one small victory that had come out of those first few hours.

Right after the First Expeditionary Force had been dumped, Insurrectionist reinforcements had arrived in the form of a _massive_ fleet of nearly a thousand ships. The Seventh Fleet had been forced to fall back to Elpis, Sigma Octanus IV's larger moon, and establish a new defensive line there. Because of that, the First Expeditionary Force was left on its own. The positive side of that was that Sigma Octanus IV, being the new military hub, had more than enough materiél on the surface to keep the marines busy without need of naval assistance.

The real trouble was the Insurrectionist ground forces attacking Côte d'Azur. If they captured the military base north of the city, they would be able to deactivate the orbital defense grid, which was currently the only thing keeping their fleet from orbitally bombarding the planet.

Since the Seventh Fleet had been driven back to Elpis, the Insurrectionists had, for the most part, kept to their perimeter around Sigma Octanus IV, but they would send medium-sized forces of capital and support ships at somewhat regular intervals to weather down Al-Hassin's strength. So far, it was working; the Seventh Fleet had lost close to twenty ships from the near-constant fighting. Despite the significant losses doled out to the Insurrectionists, they had the numbers to take the beating. Al-Hassin did not, and he was beginning to feel the pressure.

"Any word from HIGHCOM on our reinforcements?" Al-Hassin asked Ensign Rush.

The communications officer shook his head. "No, sir. Our transmissions are being blocked by Reb jammers, but last I heard the Fourth and Thirteenth Fleets would be on their way. That was five days ago, when we were still in the slipstream."

Al-Hassin let out another sigh. "We cannot depend on those reinforcements," the admiral murmured. "Reinforcements who are relied on always arrive too late… We're acting on borrowed time, anyways."

"Sir?" Lieutenant Sorrel, the helmsman, inquired, not following his commander.

"If the Rebs wanted to annihilate us, they could damn well do it," Al-Hassin said matter-of-factly, giving a small shrug. "All they have to do is come at us head-on and we'll drown in their numbers. Oh, we'll take a good amount of them with us, but they would still be able to do it."

"Then why haven't they?" Sorrel asked next.

"Because they have crap-ass commanders, that's why," Commander Tomlinson answered that one. "We—the UNSC—just came off of fighting a thirty-year-long war; I'd say we're pretty seasoned when it comes to fighting," the exec explained. "The Rebs; all their military has probably done for the past God knows how many years is act as an internal security force. They probably haven't fought a legitimate war at all; they're inexperienced."

"That about sums it up," Al-Hassin agreed. "If it were a Covenant Fleet we were facing here—even if it were only a quarter of its current size—it would have charged us way back on Day One. Sure, it would have taken losses, but we would have been completely wiped out or forced to flee the system. It wouldn't have kept on sending ass these half-assed assaults against us. Even so…" the admiral paused to rub the bridge of his nose wearily. "Even so…incompetent as the Rebs' commanders may be, if they keep on sending enough of these forces, eventually we _will_ be beaten back."

"Unless our reinforcements get here soon," Lieutenant Howell clarified.

"Yes…unless they get here soon," Admiral Al-Hassin echoed. The bridge remained silent for a few minutes until Al-Hassin asked Ensign Rush for a status update on the ongoing skirmish between the three UNSC battlegroups and the Insurrectionist assault force.

"Sir, the _Crucible_ and the _Bloody Sunday_ have been significantly damaged and need to fall back to make repairs. Five other vessels have also been lightly hit," Ensign Rush reported. "This assault seems more powerful than the last ones," the communications officer added, throwing in his own two cents.

Al-Hassin released another sigh and stood up, stepping down from the small platform which his command chair was situated on and walking up to the viewscreen, standing in between the primary and secondary helm stations. "Enough of this. Helm, take us in; I want these Rebs running back to their mothers with their tails tucked between their legs."

"Aye, sir!" Lieutenant Sorrel input the appropriate commands with a good measure of enthusiasm.

The admiral glanced back at Ensign Fitzgerald, the officer manning the weapons station. "Fire Control; bring weapons systems online, put the MAC cannons on standby. Al-Hassin paused to clear his throat and then called out, "Scipio!"

"Over here," the rich, baritone voice of the shipboard smart AI drifted over from the holo-table towards the back of the bridge. "Give me a nanosecond…_there_," Scipio vanished and reappeared in front of the viewscreen, adjusting his plumed centurion's helmet. "Orders, sir?"

"Bring the ship up to full combat status," Al-Hassin ordered. "You have the plasma turrets."

Scipio raised his hand in a quasi-Roman salute and vanished, setting off to accomplish his tasks.

Al-Hassin watched in silence as the _Blood and Iron_ approached the combat zone. There was a high rushing noise as a stray MAC round shot past the fleet carrier. The MAC shot missed by a good amount, but it still served as a final wake-up call.

"Sir, I'm detecting multiple bogeys inbound, straight ahead," Lieutenant Howell reported.

"Fire Control, give 'em Archer Pod One," Al-Hassin ordered. "Ensign Rush, get in contact with the hangar; I want our longswords out there immediately."

"Aye, sir!" Ensigns Fitzgerald and Rush chorused in unison as they obeyed.

"Number One, get me a visual of those bogeys," Admiral Al-Hassin said to his exec.

Commander Tomlinson manipulated the viewscreen and magnified it several times, enough to see a group of a hundred or so Insurrectionist fighters heading right for the carrier. The fighters looked similar to longswords—Insurrectionists seemed to get most of their technology from stolen samples of UNSC machinery—but there were still enough differences to prevent them from being called carbon copies.

The archer missiles from the fleet carrier's first missile pod came into view, all of them streaking towards the oncoming fighters. Several of them were hit or clipped by the missiles, sending them spinning out of control. Others were hit by the missiles head-on. All that was left of them were small pieces of debris floating away into space or being pulled down into Elpis's gravity well.

A good amount of the Insurrectionist fighters escaped the missiles and kept right on coming, but the barrage of missiles had left them recovering from confusion and disarray just as the _Blood and Iron's_ complement of longsword fighters intercepted them.

As the UNSC fighters tangled with their Insurrectionist counterparts, the _Blood and Iron_ moved right past and advanced on the nearest Insurrectionist ship; a largish vessel, slightly smaller than a marathon-class cruiser—the type of ship a lesser UNSC admiral would command a Battlegroup from.

As the _Blood and Iron_ drew closer, Commander Tomlinson's console began to give off a loud alarm. The exec disabled the alarm and exclaimed, "Missiles inbound!"

Admiral Al-Hassin looked up to the ceiling and shouted, "Scipio! Pulse lasers!"

Scipio, although his digital avatar was not physically on the bridge, was still present and able to take an exeute Al-Hassin's orders. "On it," the AI's voice seemed to come from everywhere.

The _Blood and Iron's_ pulse lasers came to life, firing their thin, red beams with highly competent accuracy into the oncoming cloud of anti-vessel missiles. They did not quite have the near-divine efficiency of the Sangheili point defense lasers, but under Scipio's careful guidance they could still get the job done.

Their drawback was that they were just fresh out of the proto-type stage and had a lot of kinks to work out. The fleet carrier's pulse lasers managed to take out most of the oncoming missiles, but a couple managed to slip past and hit the _Blood and Iron_ right in her starboard side armor.

The entire ship rocked, forcing the bridge crew to hold onto their stations to avoid being thrown to the floor. Al-Hassin was thrown against the secondary helm station, but he grabbed the chair to steady himself. "Damage report!" the admiral shouted.

"Sir, I'm getting reports of hull damage in sections four and five on decks thirteen through sixteen!" Lieutenant Howell shouted back in reply. "I'm sending Lieutenant Commander Pierry's damage control parties to that area."

"Good," Al-Hassin nodded with satisfaction. He turned his attention back to the rival cruiser on the viewscreen. "Fire Control, plot a solution for our forward MAC!"

Ensign Fitzgerald took a quick moment to comply before replying, "Solution plotted and locked in, sir!"

"Fire!"

Fitzgerald did just that. The _Blood and Iron's_ forward MAC cannon gave off a loud _**BOOM**_ as it fired. An explosion ballooned up on the port side of the Insurrectionist cruiser as the MAC shot tore through its lateral armor. The cruiser listed heavily, venting atmosphere into space as it spun out.

"Direct hit," Fitzgerald confirmed.

"Good shot," Al-Hassin nodded. "That cruiser is out for the count; let it go."

"Sir!" Commander Tomlinson cried out suddenly. "Sir, another enemy cruiser has us in its sights!"

"Evasive maneuvers!" Al-Hassin roared, wasting no time. He turned and walked back to his chair, forcing himself to sit down. His grip on his chair's armrests was enough to turn his knuckles bone-white.

"Too late, they're opening fire!"

"_Shit!_" Al-Hassin swore before he could clamp down on his tongue. His brain whizzed at the speed of light, processing the situation and considering every possible solution. "Blow the starboard cargo bay!" the admiral ordered.

"Sir, there could be personnel in there!" Commander Tomlinson argued.

"It's either them or the entire ship!" Admiral Al-Hassin snapped. "Blow the cargo bay; that's an order!"

"Aye, sir," Commander Tomlinson obeyed, unwillingly but faithfully.

As the _Blood and Iron's_ starboard cargo bay was rapidly depressurized and exposed to space, the force of the mini-explosion blew the carrier off into a gradual fishtail-turn. This rapidly turned the fleet carrier _towards_ the enemy cruiser as it fired.

The Insurrectionist cruiser fired its forward MAC cannon and scored a direct hit on the _Blood and Iron._ However, had the _Blood and Iron_ still been facing perpendicular to the cruiser, the MAC round would have ripped right through its hull. Instead, the _Blood and Iron_ had turned and angled itself just far enough to save it from that fate.

The ship rocked as the MAC round impacted, but it was not a horrible ordeal.

"Damage report!" Al-Hassin shouted again.

"Light hull breaches in section eight on decks five and six, structural damage in the areas surrounding those," Commander Tomlinson reported.

"That's it?" Lieutenant Sorrel asked, his voice high with disbelief. "That hit should have torn right through us!"

Commander Tomlinson shook his head slowly. "No…by turning _into_ the path of the MAC shot, the round's trajectory took it into our ship at a drastic angle. It skipped right off our armor…" the commander shook his head again, still in partial shock at surviving the ordeal. "I've heard theories of this maneuver being possible, but it's never been done before."

"Be glad we're fighting against Insurrectionists and not Covenant," Al-Hassin exhaled with relief. "That trick would never have worked against plasma. Mr. Fitzgerald, would you please repay that cruiser, with our sincere compliments?"

"Aye, sir-" Ensign Fitzgerald managed to say, but as he moved to plot the appropriate solution for the aft MAC cannon, the Insurrectionist cruiser rocked suddenly, fire spouting from a ragged hole which had just appeared painfully close to the enemy vessel's bridge.

"That was the _Northern Lights_; Admiral Mackall's ship," Lieutenant Howell reported.

Al-Hassin shrugged. "Well, we have the solution plotted, might as well use it. Finish them off."

"Aye, sir," Fitzgerald fired the _Blood and Iron's_ aft MAC cannon, propelling a second 600-ton round of depleted uranium into the damaged Insurrectionist cruiser at forty percent the speed of light.

The Insurrectionist cruiser listed heavily, suffering from the second hit. Finally, a critical point was reached and passed, and the ship broke apart with a series of good-sized explosions of flame and debris.

"Direct hit," Ensign Fitzgerald dutifully reported the kill.

"Sir, Rear Admiral Mackall is sending his thanks," Ensign Rush reported from the communications console.

"Thank you, Mr. Rush," Al-Hassin nodded. "Tell him he's more than welcome."

As Ensign Rush conveyed Al-Hassin's response, he put a hand to his ear as he began to pick up a new transmission. He quickly sent off Al-Hassin's reply to Admiral Mackall and then elaborated on the new transmission he was receiving. "Sir, I'm getting a transmission from the _Day of Wrath_, Anatoly Raemius's ship; she's picking up a slipspace signal somewhere off near Sigma Octanus V."

Al-Hassin cocked an eyebrow, his interest sparked. "Ours?"

"Don't know, sir," Rush shrugged.

"Alright…alright, tell the _Day of Wrath_ to intercept," Al-Hassin decided. "We'll be there shortly."

"Aye, sir," Ensign Rush nodded and relayed the new set of orders.

"Helm," Al-Hassin turned over to Lieutenant Sorrel up front. "Take us out of here and plot a course for that slipspace emergence signature."

"Aye, sir," Lieutenant Sorrel complied. "Turning her about, all ahead full."

The pale, cratered sphere that was Elpis passed by the viewscreen as the _Blood and Iron_ spun about and began to move around it, using the upper reaches of the moon's gravity well to help her along. It took six minutes for the _Blood and Iron_ to reach the location of the slipspace emergence. The _Mirage_—a smaller UNSC destroyer—was holding position next to…an empty patch of space.

Only, it really _wasn't_ an empty patch of space.

"The _Day of Wrath_ says it's a prowler," Ensign Rush reported. "It isn't responding to hails."

Al-Hassin nodded, taking the information in. "Alright. Lock onto the prowler and send out another squadron of longswords to escort it into our hangar bays."

"Aye, sir," Ensign Rush relayed the orders. As the bridge crew watched, a squadron of ten longswords emerged from the _Blood and Iron's_ hangar and formed up around the prowler, though it looked as if they were forming up around an empty patch of space to the outsider.

As the longswords escorted the prowler in towards the fleet carrier, Admiral Al-Hassin got to his feet and stepped down from the command platform. "You have the bridge, number one," Al-Hassin said to Commander Tomlinson as he headed to the bridge's entrance.

"Sir," Tomlinson nodded and got up from the primary tactical station, which was then taken over by Lieutenant Howell.

The doors hissed open as Admiral Al-Hassin approached, allowing him to pass through without walking into solid titanium. They sealed behind the admiral as he moved off down the corridor. Al-Hassin headed straight to the nearest lift and stood in front of the doors, waiting as the weight sensors in the floor under him registered his presence, calling the lift up to the bridge's level.

The doors hissed open a few seconds later and Al-Hassin stepped in. In a clear voice he said, "Hangar Bay Two."

The voice-activated lift registered the command. The doors sealed and the lift began to descend down into the bowels of the fleet carrier. The descent took a minute. After it reached the bottom of the _Blood and Iron,_ the lift then changed direction and began to head back towards the stern of the ship, where the hangar bays were situated, sandwiched in between cargo/storage and engineering.

The _Blood and Iron_ had two hangar bays, one situated on each side of the fleet carrier, separated by the central corridors of the ships interior on that level which connected engineering with supply. Al-Hassin's lift dropped him off in Hangar Bay Two, the starboard-side hangar bay, which was the side the prowler would be entering on.

The lift came to a full stop and the doors hissed open. Admiral Al-Hassin stepped out, in time to see one of the giant hangar doors opening. As it opened, a barely-visible force field flickered to life at the other side of the entry alcove, forming a huge airlock. When the doors opened completely, the force field kept the hangar bay from completely depressurizing and becoming part of outer space.

As Admiral Al-Hassin walked through the neat rows of longswords, dropships, and vehicles, he watched as the ten longsword fighters and the prowler they were escorting cleared the hangar doors and hovered inside the entry alcove while the hangar doors began to seal.

Crewmen manning the hangar and technicians inspecting and repairing damaged fighters noticed their skipper walking by and went out of their way to snap to attention and salute. Al-Hassin had to constantly return salutes and wave crewman back to their work, much to his chagrin.

When the hangar doors sealed shut and the entry alcove was repressurized, the force field snapped off and the prowler and its longsword escorts were allowed to maneuver into the rest of the hangar.

The longsword fighters turned away and headed down to the far end of the hangar and landed in their assigned positions. The pilots hopped out of the cockpits and turned their ships over to inspection from the technicians.

Admiral Al-Hassin strode towards the prowler, which had landed at an open spot not far from the hangar door which it had entered the fleet carrier through.

A chief petty officer was leading a party of twenty or so naval personnel armed with assault rifles and submachine guns towards the prowler. It was all protocol; security would need to be observed if an unknown ship was brought aboard. Normally marines would have handled the duty, but the _Blood and Iron's_ complement of marines was currently fighting in Côte d'Azur with the rest of the First Expeditionary Force, so the duty fell to the crew.

The CPO and the rest of the ratings snapped to attention and offered the admiral a quick salute, but they quickly relaxed and returned their attention to the prowler.

"Sir, whoever's inside'll probably come out on their own," the CPO surmised as Al-Hassin walked up next to him, right in front of where the prowler's docking ramp was located. "If not, we'll have a tech crew come over here to breach-"

Even as the CPO spoke, there was a hissing noise and a rush of pressurized air which almost looked like steam as the prowler's docking ramp was unsealed. The ramp swung open and extended down to the ground.

Admiral Al-Hassin was surprised to see five people dressed in street clothes, not military personnel, descend down the ramp. To further the abnormality, two of those five people were children—a boy and a girl—both of whom could not have been a year above thirteen. The boy had unruly, jet-black hair which was beginning to cover his ears and soft blue eyes which had a subtle, mischievous glint in them. The girl had shoulder-length dirty-blond hair and deep brown eyes. Unlike her companion, her eyes did not have a mischievous glint; they instead had the look of someone who has seen too much in too small an amount of time.

The other three individuals were all adults—two men and one woman. One of the men was a thinner man of medium height with short, fair hair, a spray of freckles across his face, and larger eyes which were a harsh, piercing shade of electric blue. The woman was as tall as the first man. Both of them looked to be in their mid to late twenties. The woman had longish, fiery-red hair, green eyes, and a face which would have made a good portion of men loosen their wedding rings.

The third man was older than the other two. He was a taller man with short, brown hair with edges of gray starting at the temples, and a short beard covering the lower reaches of his face.

The two younger adults were the first to descend the ramp. They saw Admiral Al-Hassin and recognized his rank as a flag officer, snapping to attention and bringing their hands to their foreheads in a hasty, but calm salute.

That made Al-Hassin raise an eyebrow. These two individuals were clearly military in some regard; their stance and posture attested to that.

"Permission to come aboard, sir?" the red-haired woman asked, adhering to protocol.

_So, my mysterious friends, you were part of the Navy, then?_ Al-Hassin's inner voice asked. The admiral did not voice that question; it could wait a few seconds. Instead he ordered them at ease and granted their permission, adding, "I can't exactly tell you to get off right now, anyway. Now, if you do not mind my asking; who the hell are you?"

"Petty Officers Alexander-G004 and Samantha-G113 reporting, sir," the blue-eyed man said in a nearly-emotionless, informative voice.

The numbers for last names took Al-Hassin completely by surprise. "You are Spartans?!" the admiral asked, skeptical. They did not look very much like Spartans, at least not as much like the Spartan-IIs from the Great War, who had been much larger in size and build. These individuals looked fairly normal.

"Just us, sir, not them. They're…friends," the woman, Samantha-G113 gestured to the two young teenagers and the third man.

"Friends or not, all of you will have to be processed," Admiral Al-Hassin informed the newcomers. "Anyone can come aboard this ship claiming not to be enemies of the UNSC easily enough. We need to make sure you are who you say you are…then we will focus on these three," Al-Hassin gestured to the teens and the middle-aged man. "Until then, your friends will be placed under watch in the brig. You two will accompany me to one of our briefing rooms."

"Wait a sec; you're putting us in _jail?_" the black-haired boy exclaimed, his voice nearly cracking with disbelief. "What the hell; you all are supposed to be the _good_ guys!"

"Cool it, Blaze," the male Spartan said to the boy in a hushed, warning tone.

Al-Hassin pretended not to notice. "Follow me," the admiral turned on his heel and, accompanied by two armed naval personnel, headed back towards the lift which he had arrived on. The CPO and his party of crewmen escorted the two young teens and the older man from the prowler towards another lift, heading towards the brig.

"How long are they going to be held?" the red-haired woman—Samantha, she has said her name was—asked Al-Hassin as they walked into the lift.

The admiral cleared his throat and said, "Deck Ten." The lift registered the command and began to ascend up into the central depths of the carrier. That done, the admiral turned his attention back to his charges. "I cannot promise you anything until I learn more about you. You have to understand; finding an unidentified prowler with technically non-military personnel on board—in the middle of a battle, no less—is a highly, _highly_ irregular circumstance."

"Understandable," the female Spartan agreed.

The lift came to a halt and hissed open, allowing the admiral to step out into the corridor beyond. The two Spartans followed him with the two armed naval crewmen bringing up the rear. On the way, the party of five passed other naval personnel making their way down the corridors. They all gave hasty and surprised salutes as they saw their skipper in person, relaxing and proceeding once they were out of sight.

Admiral Al-Hassin led the way through the corridors until he reached a smaller sub-corridor which led straight to one of the mission briefing rooms. The doors at the end of the sub-corridor hissed open, allowing Al-Hassin and his two charges to enter. The two naval personnel remained outside.

After the doors sealed, Al-Hassin sat down at the round table situated in the center of the room. There was a holographic projector array built into the center of the table and into the wall at the far end of the room, but Al-Hassin would not be needing them.

"This is all impromptu, you realize," Al-Hassin clarified as he gestured for the two Spartans to sit down. "Normally one of my ONI personnel on board would handle this, but these are hardly normal circumstances. My ONI officer should be arriving here soon, but I do not want to wait for him. First, you are going to have to provide me with some measure of proof that you-"

The male Spartan—Alexander—stood back up and picked up the metal chair which he had been sitting on. He wordlessly grasped one of the chair legs and bent it around itself until it formed a rough curlicue. Without any effort on his part, the fair-haired Spartan twisted the metal chair leg back around and made it straight again, setting the chair down and sitting back down on it.

Admiral Al-Hassin's expression barely changed. He cocked an eyebrow and allowed himself a slight nod. "Well, that simplifies things somewhat."

As the admiral spoke, the briefing room's doors hissed open and a man clad in a black uniform with the insignia of a full bird-Colonel strode into the room. Al-Hassin's other eyebrow slid up his forehead to join its companion; the ONI officer had arrived much faster than he had expected. The man was the new ONI officer who had stationed aboard the _Blood and Iron_ back in September. He was a quiet, thin, pale, invisible man with a reserved aura. However quiet he preferred to be, he was very good at what he did. He seemed to have an internal long-range sensor array when it came to sniffing out the unusual, such as the presence of two Spartans on board his ship.

"Sir, I would appreciate being informed the next time we have a-" was all the ONI officer said as he walked into the room, but he stopped mid-speech when the two Spartans turned around to face him.

"_You?_" the male Spartan exclaimed.

"Alex? Sam?" the ONI colonel sounded equally surprised.

Admiral Al-Hassin cleared his throat. "Mr. Angiers, you…erm…_know_ these two?"

The ONI officer nodded slowly, edging into the room and taking a seat. "I'm afraid I cannot tell you how; the events of our…escapades several months ago are—at this current time—highly classified," Colonel Angiers explained to the admiral. "However, I can personally vouch for these two; they are definitely who they say they are."

Admiral Al-Hassin took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, allowing himself a weary yawn. "I'm getting too old for all of this…" the admiral muttered under his breath. "As much as I trust you, Colonel Angiers, I am going to need confirmation-"

"Yes, yes," Angiers gave a dismissive wave. "You'll receive confirmation from Admiral Rich shortly."

Admiral Al-Hassin opened his mouth in reply, but before he could speak Scipio appeared over the holographic array built into the center of the table.

"Pardon the interruption, sir, but your presence has been requested back on the bridge," the shipboard smart AI informed the admiral. "The Insurrectionists are making another attack on our perimeter, and this time they have heavy cruisers with them."

Admiral Al-Hassin muttered something under his breath in what sounded like Arabic, but it was such a sparsely-spoken language these days that no one could recognize it for certain. "Please excuse me," Al-Hassin rose to his feet. "I must go. Colonel Angiers, I am leaving these two in your custody. Until I get Admiral Rich's confirmation, I cannot allow them to roam the ship freely or join the battle on the surface, but I do not foresee this being an issue for very long." With a final salute and nod, Al-Hassin strode off to the entrance and walked out through the door. The two crewman guarding the entrance to the briefing room followed him away.

* * *

The doors hissed shut once more, leaving Alex and Sam Ambrose alone in the mission briefing room with Colonel Angiers. "I honestly never expected to see either of you again," the ONI colonel confessed after a few seconds of silence.

"A month ago, if someone told us we'd be dropping right into the middle of a full-blown battle at Sigma Octanus IV of all places, I'd have called him a lunatic," Sam agreed. "You've come a long way as well, it seems."

"Well," Colonel Angiers gave a modest shrug, rubbing a speck of dirt off of one of his fingers. "After our little…" the ONI officer searched for an appropriate word, "…'adventures' on Nemesis III, I became the UNSC's top source of intel on the Magistarium. Some time after we returned to Earth, one of the Magistarium's advance forces attacked Irivet V, one of our main hubs in the Outer Colonies. I knew the most about the Insurrectionists, so HIGHCOM assigned me to this ship."

"What about the others?" Alex asked next. "Waters? Collins? Peruski? Alley Garris? And where's Tyrone?"

"Bill Collins was taken into HIGHCOM last I knew, probably being questioned for his involvement with the Insurrectionists," Angiers replied. "Alley Garris, Officer Waters, and Arch Peruski were all debriefed, and then allowed to return to Riverside."

"And Tyrone?"

"Tyrone is currently fighting on the surface in Côte d'Azur with the First Expeditionary Force," Colonel Angiers replied. "We'll probably try to have you two join him once I can get everything cleared up here. Now then, would you mind explaining to me who those other three people who boarded with you were?"

Sam answered that one. "You remember the Illuminati? That secret group of separatists on Nemesis III?" When Angiers nodded, she went on. "The two kids are part of that group's Special Ops task force. Children are allowed to volunteer to fight as a part of it; they are two examples of that fact."

Angiers nodded knowingly. "Well, the UNSC is no stranger to employing children to accomplish its goals," Angiers admitted. "You two are living proof. And what of the other man, the one with the beard?"

"He's a…special case…" Alex muttered with a good amount of distaste. "He used to be one of the Magistarium's top Special Operations commanders. He's the one who led the team of individuals who kidnapped my son."

Angier's eyes widened in surprise. "What?!" he exclaimed. "Why is he-"

"His name is Liam O'Riley; he _defected_ from the Magistarium," Sam quickly clarified, shooting her husband a sidelong glare, "and nearly died for it."

Alex was not suddenly convinced that the former-Deputy Director O'Riley had acquired a halo around his head. "Oh, wonderful," the blue-eyed Spartan snorted, his voice dripping with his earlier cynicism. "He's on our side now, _so_ _what?_ He had to ruin and nearly end our son's life and disrupt ours to finally see the light; excuse me if I don't start kissing the hem of his robes."

The ONI officer's expression softened as he regarded the two Spartans arguing over recent events which he had not been present for. "Off the record…did you find the sons of bitches who killed your son in that torture place?"

Alex—the male Spartan—shook his head. He was not saying 'no' to Angiers's question, but to what the ONI officer believed. "He isn't dead," Alex told the ONI colonel. "Robin's been alive this whole time."

Had Colonel Angiers been eating or drinking when Alex said that, he would have spat or sprayed whatever was in his mouth halfway across the room. "He survived the blast?" the colonel murmured, more to himself than to the Ambroses. "Where is he?"

Alex gave a low grunt and leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table. "No fucking clue…" the blue-eyed Spartan muttered. "The leader of the Illuminati turned out to be a turncoat, manipulating both sides to further his own agenda. He's out there now, somewhere, doing who knows what... He betrayed the Illuminati and kidnapped my son only days before we arrived in the Illuminati's city."

"O'Riley said that Robin would eventually be brought here to Sigma Octanus IV, but he obviously hasn't arrived yet…" Sam explained, her voice trailing off.

Some of the scant color remaining in Colonel Angiers's face drained away, making the spook look even more ghostly. "The Magistarium has recaptured Robin; that's what you're saying?"

"In a nutshell," Sam sighed. "You look like you've seen a ghost; what's wrong?"

"We've managed to decrypt several high-priority secure transmissions from the Insurrectionists over Sigma Octanus IV, all of them mentioning even more reinforcements in the form of an alien fleet and…something else; a colossal weapon of sorts which…" Angiers dropped his head into his hands for a few seconds as he took in this new turn of events. "The crux of the matter was that they needed your son to _use_ that weapon…now that he's alive and mre importantly now that they _have_ him back in their clutches…"

"What is this weapon?" Alex could no longer hold the question in. "I've been hearing about it for ages; what is it and what does it do?"

Angiers took a brief moment, composing a suitable answer. "Nothing is certain; the answers we have are based on the little fragments of intel which we've pieced together so far, so anything we have is not-"

"Cut the shit, Angiers," Alex interrupted the ONI officer. "What does the weapon do?"

Angiers told him.

Alex fell quiet, his mouth forming a silent 'oh'.

Angiers and the Ambroses sat in a sober silence for a couple of minutes. No one spoke or even moved too much; they simply sat there—Angiers waiting patiently for the Ambroses to appreciate the severity of the situation. The only thing missing from the whole scene was a clock to supply the _tick-tock_ in the background, or crickets.

"Well…" Sam finally broke the silence. "We're in deep shit, then, aren't we?"

"Oh, yeah," Angiers nodded, "Very deep shit."


	52. Chapter 51: Outgunned and Outnumbered

Chapter Fifty-One: Outgunned and Outnumbered

**1002 Hours, November 19, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Côte d'Azur**

"Morning, Hiram," Captain James Stackhouse greeted his exec with a brief, formal salute followed up by a more informal and friendly handshake.

1st Lieutenant Hiram Young was lying on his stomach on a makeshift cot made of several empty crates and a layer of padding. A purple heart medal lay on the stand next to the cot. He had been awarded his own personal corner of his post-op tent outside one of the field hospitals behind 3rd Division's main defensive line just southeast of Côte d'Azur. He had sustained four bullet wounds to each side of both of his buttocks. _One bullet, four holes_, Captain Stackhouse had tactfully put it right after Young had been shot.

Lieutenant Young greeted his superior with a simple grunt, followed up with, "Morning, sir."

The exec did not sound happy, and with good reason. While any soldier would be grateful to be alive after getting hit, most of them did not enjoy recuperating afterwards. Regardless of the fact that they were physically unable to rejoin their comrades on the lines, a good amount always felt like they were goldbricking by lying down safely behind the lines while their friends roughed it out.

The whole concept of goldbricking in that way was ridiculous, but it was how soldiers felt.

Lieutenant Young was no exception. The lieutenant had not liked getting stuck on the shelf when the Battle of Côte d'Azur had only just begun.

"What's happening on the line?" Lieutenant Young asked, getting right down to the point. "I hear bits and pieces from the wounded who are brought in here, but that only goes so far."

Captain Stackhouse pulled up a stool and sat down next to his exec's cot, taking care not to wake the wounded woman sleeping in the adjacent cot. "It's been heavy," Stackhouse sighed, pausing to rub the bridge of his nose wearily. Clearly he had not gotten very much sleep. Sleep deprivation was one of the perks that came with battle, along with foul language, shitty food, and combat shell-shock.

Captain Stackhouse yawned, continuing after he was finished. "Rebs hit us with armor three days ago—right after you got shot—and again yesterday. Yesterday's thrust was…well, it was no cakewalk…"

"How's the company?" Lieutenant Young asked next.

It was Stackhouse's turn to grunt. "You want to know something?" Stackhouse asked his exec. The company commander continued before even waiting for an answer from Young. "I keep seeing what the Rebs are throwing at us time after time…we're taking losses; there's no simpler way of putting it. Keep this off the record, but I honestly cannot see us holding Côte d'Azur against the Insurrectionist forces arrayed against us. Only alternative I can think of is nuking the whole damn place, but we have no means of evacuation."

"We have Colonel Dominique's 3rd Air Wing; they're still with us," Lieutenant Young pointed out.

"Yes," Stackhouse conceded his exec's point, but still did not change his mind. "Yes, we have air support, but it would take much too long to evac every unit on the line here," the company commander explained. "With Al-Hassin still pinned down all the way away at Elpis, we would have to rely solely on the 3rd Air Wing to get us out, and that would take much too long. Our lines would be gradually weakened as more troops were pulled out, making it so that the ones who don't go out first will be thrown into a meat-grinder. The other alternative; nuke the place with us still here."

"HIGHCOM can have its head up its ass sometimes," Lieutenant Young quipped, "but not even _they_ would do something like that."

"They would have in the Great War, they would have done it in a heartbeat," Captain Stackhouse murmured.

"There's a huge difference between now and then," Lieutenant Young countered.

Captain Stackhouse let out another weary sigh. "Yeah, you're right…I guess these past few days are just getting to me. You asked about the company; it's holding up as best as it can."

Lieutenant Young cocked an eyebrow. An answer like that could mean anything.

"Company strength is down to seventy-three percent, though I'm hoping for it to go up once you and others wounded when you were get off the shelf and back onto the lines," Stackhouse continued. "Lieutenant Baker bought the farm the day you were shot; stopped an artillery shell in his foxhole. Gunnery Sergeant Dupree has his platoon. I also have 1st Sergeant Haywood filling in for you."

Lieutenant Young gave a satisfied nod. "They're good marines; they'll get the job done."

"For now," Stackhouse agreed. The company commander sat in silence for another few seconds. He then yawned once more and got back up to his feet. "I have to get back to the company soon," Stackhouse sighed, "It's been quiet all morning, but the Rebs are bound to attack again soon; I'm surprised they've waited _this_ long. They don't usually give us the chance to recover from their last strike."

"See you on the other side, sir," Young offered Stackhouse as formal a salute as the he could muster from his cot.

Stackhouse returned the gesture and walked off. He wandered through the post-op tent and through the others like this one outside, finding the marines from India Company of the 54th Regiment who had been wounded these past few days. He sat and chatted with the ones who were conscious, passing over the ones who were either comatose or sleeping.

Half and hour later, Captain Stackhouse stepped out of the field hospital and onto the road which eventually led down to 3rd Division's lines. The groups of marines usually heading up or down the road were waiting off to the side, however, making room for the column of dragons rumbling their way up the road towards Côte d'Azur.

"What's going on here?" Stackhouse hollered over to one of the tank commanders, "Where are y'all going?"

The tank commander who Stackhouse was talking to turned to identify the source of the inquiry. Upon seeing that the questioner was a captain, the tank commander—a wiry master sergeant with graying hair and icy-gray eyes—gestured northwest towards the city. "Orders came in from General Harrington," the dragon commander explained, "McCandlish is pulling everything from the 13th Armored north to the Black Hills, north of Côte d'Azur."

The tank commander's dragon was already getting farther away before Captain Stackhouse had a chance to ask why.

The company commander continued to walk down the road opposite the retreating tanks, questions whirling around in his mind. Why was General McCandlish pulling the tanks back? That made no sense; it would weaken the lines.

Although Stackhouse firmly believed that the presence of the 13th Armored was simply delaying the inevitable, just exactly _why_ the higher-ups would want the inevitable to occur sooner was beyond him.

The fact that Ian McCandlish was an excellent general complicated the matter for Stackhouse. Had McCandlish been an incompetent, Stackhouse could simply written off the armored retreat as yet another moronic decision made by a moronic leader. As it was, General McCandlish was certainly one of the better generals in the UNSC Marine Corps. When he did something, that something always had a reason, an objective, an ultimate goal to accomplish. Not that the general was _above_ making mistakes, but he still made them very rarely. And something as big as pulling back the First Expeditionary Force's armored division was no small matter; the general obviously had to have had a good reason for doing so.

That was what was maddening for Captain Stackhouse. He was a company commander, a tactician down to his skivvies. Though his skills as a tactician were much better suited for a company of circa-two hundred marines rather than an expeditionary force of forty-five to fifty thousand, he was still a tactician nonetheless. He knew that McCandlish had his reasons for pulling back the tanks, but, for the life of him, he did not know what they were. All he could do now was simply return to his line and keep on doing what he had been doing ever since the First Expeditionary Force had landed in Côte d'Azur four days ago.

And that was exactly what Stackhouse did.

* * *

Lieutenant General Hiroshi Hasegawa could not believe his ears. "Repeat your last, Lothario," the commander of II Corps spoke into one of the COM stations in II Corps HQ, situated a good halfway between the lines and downtown Côte d'Azur.

On the other end of the channel was Major General Lothario Armistead, Hasegawa's subordinate and the commander of 3rd Division. "Sir, I say again; our armor is pulling back north. Our lines have been-"

General Hasegawa let out a weary sigh and sat down at the holo-table which he had been poring over before his division commander had contacted him with this troubling news. "The 13th is pulling back from all of our lines? Not just yours?"

"Yes, sir," Armistead's response was. "I just got off the horn with General Natchez—Morrison's replacement—and General Dalyell from 2nd Division in I Corps; Harrington's tanks are pulling back north from everywhere."

"Have you been able to speak with Harrington himself?"

"No, sir, but I can-"

"No, General, see to your defenses; I'll handle Harrington," Hasegawa interrupted, not wanting to waste any more time than was needed. He said farewell to his division commander and then asked his operator to patch him through to General Harrington's personal tank which he usually commanded his division from.

"Who is this?" the younger, sharp, brusque tones of the First Expeditionary Force's armored commander issued through the COM. He didn't bother identifying himself; people who wanted to contact the armored commander all instantly recognized him by his voice and tone.

"This is General Hasegawa," the II Corps Commander replied, leaving it at that.

The effect was immediate. The name was not really necessary for Hasegawa; his Japanese-accented voice was every bit as distinguishable over the COM as Harrington's own voice was. Harrington's voice quickly became more subdued and 'polite', as much as the word could apply to the brash general. "Yes, General, what can I do for you?"

"Word has it that you're pulling all of your armor out of our lines," General Hasegawa said, keeping his voice calm. "Please clarify."

"Yeah, that's right," Harrington's response was, "Orders are to gather up my tanks and pull 'em all back to the Black Hills."

"Orders?" Hasegawa echoed, not sure if he heard his counterpart clearly. "General McCandlish ordered you to do this?"

"Yeah, he did."

"Thank you, General; that will be all…" Hasegawa murmured, killing the channel afterwards. He stood in silence, paying half-attention to the holo-table in front of him, his mind in a state of confusion. Pulling back the armor did not make any sense to him.

"Trouble, sir?" Hasegawa's adjutant—who was standing across the holo-table—asked his superior.

Hasegawa glanced briefly at Major Paul Fairbanks and gave a slight shrug, subtly wincing as he disturbed one of his almost-healed shrapnel wounds. "Harrington is pulling back all of his armor to the Black Hills, under General McCandlish's orders. Any thoughts?"

"Yes, sir: what the hell?"

"Exactly," Hasegawa sighed again, running a hand through his snowy hair. He remained pensive for another minute or two before finally making up his mind. "Keep things running here, Paul; I'm going to pay General McCandlish a visit. If my lines are going to be undercut like this, I want to know exactly _why_. I have a funny feeling...the Rebs haven't attacked us for too long. Something is afoot."

"Yes, sir," Major Fairbanks nodded, returning his attention to the holo-table. "Hurry back sir; the last time you ducked out of Corps HQ like this you ended up in the hospital with pieces of a tank shell in your gut."

"Your observation has been noted," Hasegawa chuckled, his mouth turning up in a bitter smile. A month ago in Ainsdell City on Irivet V, when II Corps had pushed its way into Firelso Square, a surprise Insurrectionist armored thrust in the middle of the night had nearly driven II Corps all the way back into the Marisle River. In the initial attack, an exploding tank shell had seriously wounded Hasegawa, putting him on the shelf until the First Expeditionary Force's arrival in the Sigma Octanus System. It had been that same explosion which had killed General Morrison.

General Hasegawa walked out of the pharmacy which his CP was situated in and hopped into an empty warthog waiting outside on the sidewalk. He powered up the engine and pressed down the pedal, maneuvering the warthog out into the street and speeding up. The buildings of Côte d'Azur whizzed by for several minutes until Hasegawa finally found himself among the tall skyscrapers in the downtown area.

What had used to be a four-star hotel set across from a large bank had now been converted into Command HQ for the entire First Expeditionary Force. The front lobby was huge; large enough to have the entire CP situated inside of it rather than in a storage room in the basement.

General Ian McCandlish was standing near his own holo-table towards the center of the lobby. The burly north-Englishman was busy speaking with one of his subordinates over the COM when Hasegawa paid him a visit.

"I realize that, General Wyvern, but our aerial forces are tied up further east. The Rebs have aircraft of their own hitting 1st Division's lines, if I'm correct," McCandlish was saying into the COM, "If I were able to send you support I would, but Dominique's Air Wing is too—General Wyvern, please repeat your last; you're breaking up! General!" McCandlish killed the channel, swearing under his breath. "Rebs have jammed our signals again…" the general then took notice of his other Corps Commander waiting patiently behind him. "Hiroshi! I'm sorry; I had a few things I needed to hash out with General Wyvern. What do you need?"

"Sir," Hasegawa stepped forward and joined the north-Englishman at the holo-table, voicing his reservations. "Sir, I spoke with General Harrington not too long ago. He is pulling all of his armor back into the Black Hills. He said that he was doing so under your orders, general, and I would like to know why." Hasegawa did not say anymore than that. If he had wanted to, he could have easily gone on for ten minutes about how such a maneuver made absolutely no sense whatsoever, but doing so would not answer his questions any faster and would simply waste time.

"I was going to tell both you and General Wyvern shortly, but seeing as I have you here right now…" McCandlish turned over to the holo-table. Hasegawa leaned in and took a good, close look. The holo-table was projecting a large image, comprising of the city of Côte d'Azur in all its entirety, a small portion of the oceans to the west, and enough of the surrounding countryside, including the Black Hills to the north. Red and blue dots were scattered all over the place; the blue dots, representing UNSC forces, were arrayed in an almost horseshoe-shaped line which curled around Côte d'Azur's southeastern reaches and up along its eastern outskirts. Arrayed against them were thousands of red dots.

"This intel is based on aerial reconnaissance from Colonel Dominique's birds," McCandlish explained. "After the cock-up with the bloody satellites four days ago, we've been relying on Dominique's birds to be our eyes and ears beyond our lines."

"Our satellites still are not functioning, I'm assuming?" Hasegawa asked for clarification.

"Not even close," McCandlish shook his head. "The Reb fleets in orbit keep on corrupting them; until they are driven off, there is nothing we can do about it," the quad-star general took a deep breath and let out a tired yawn as he kept on talking. "This must have been how generals felt centuries ago, before we had satellites. In those days, we had to rely on planes for intel, and before that; scouts. This is madness, but that's the way it is for now. Now, then…here are our current troop movements…"

As Hasegawa watched, the groups of blue dots representing the dragons of General Harrington's 13th Armored Division detached themselves from the main lines and retreated through Côte d'Azur, up and out of the northern outskirts, across the fields and woods to the north, and into the Black Hills.

"That is exactly it, sir," Hasegawa sighed, "Pulling back the armor greatly weakens our lines. We cannot-"

"I am not completely pulling our armor back; that would spell disaster for our ground forces," McCandlish explained, "I am pulling back most of the armor in the north and east. All of those tanks are going to the Black Hills; the dragons stationed along the southeast outskirts will be moved to cover 5th Division in the east; General Natchez's boys are taking it hardest in that area."

"But why pull the 13th back in the first place? I know you, general; you do not do things like this for no reason."

"We absolutely _cannot_ allow the Rebs to gain control of the orbital defense grid," McCandlish stated adamantly. He gestured to the holo-table and whispered a command. As he spoke, a bright white dot appeared somewhere close to the middle of the Black Hills. "This," McCandlish gestured to the beacon, "is the Spire, the military command outpost which controls the orbital defense grid."

Hasegawa frowned. "I thought the grid was controlled by the ONI complex in-"

"Yes, normally it is," McCandlish nodded, "but the Spire is the backup. Control of the orbital defense grid was transferred from Côte d'Azur's ONI facility to the Spire. The Spire is our main objective. The Spire is what we have to defend at all costs."

"So then everything we have been doing recently has just been a delaying measure?"

McCandlish nodded. "Côte d'Azur—the _city_ itself is our picket line. I have been digging our artillery into the Black Hills ever since we landed four days ago. Had, the Rebs taken the city, we never would have had time to fortify the hills against them; now, however, the hills are sufficiently shored up and ready to hold out against the Rebs. In the Black Hills, we will stand a much, _much_ greater chance than we do here outside of the city."

Hasegawa listened intently, giving the occasional nod and affirmative hum. Now, his mouth thinned into a line and he gave a final nod, taking a deep breath and then exhaling as he stepped away from the holo-table. "I had to find out for myself, you understand," the Japanese general explained. "When you hear about orders which sound completely ridiculous, it's your responsibility to get to the bottom of the whole thing."

"I understand," McCandlish agreed. "If I were in your shoes-"

As the north-Englishman was speaking, the COM suddenly burst back into life as the signal broke through the Insurrectionist jammers. The sudden explosion of noise was enough to make Hasegawa flinch in surprise. The sounds coming out of the COM were all voices; all of them frantically shouting, requesting for backup, support, etc.

"Isolate those signals!" McCandlish barked to the COM operators who were working at their respective stations throughout the CP. "I want to know what the bloody hell is happening out there!"

The COM operators set about organizing and deciphering the chaotic jumble of human speech into individual transmissions and voices. Eventually, all of the operators began frantically patching the transmissions through to the people who could do something about them.

"Higgins, talk to me!" McCandlish said to the operator working the COM nearest to the holo-table.

"Sir, I'm getting…" the operator started to say, but he had to press a hand to one ear to hear another incoming transmission. "Everything's all jumbled, but I'm getting all kinds of shit from 5th Division's position to the east-southeast!"

"Clarify," McCandlish ordered. He the turned to Hasegawa as the operator concentrated on his task, saying, "Hiroshi; get back to your HQ and find out what in hell is going down there."

Hasegawa was already on his way out. By the time McCandlish had returned his attention to the COM, the II Corps Commander was already powering up his warthog.

Hasegawa floored the engine. The warthog screeched as it sped down the streets of southern Côte d'Azur, the buildings on either side becoming a generic blur of gray, brown, and red.

Less than five minutes later, Hasegawa's warthog screeched to a halt outside of the pharmacy which was serving as his Corps HQ. Hasegawa leaped out of the vehicle even before it came to a full stop; something he hadn't been able to comfortably do for a couple of decades. Even now, his wounds exploded with a white-hot pain in protest to the sudden movement, but Hasegawa stuffed the pain into a dark corner of his mind. He strode straight into the HQ, making his way past the stream of runners and personnel heading in and out.

Paul Fairbanks looked like he was about to snap from exhaustion. "Sir! Thank God you're back!" the adjutant exclaimed.

"Things just went chaotic back at Command HQ," Hasegawa explained, taking his place back at the holo-table. "Give it to me straight."

"Sir, things just went to hell at 5th Division's lines," Major Fairbanks said, his voice ragged from shouting. "Rebs came in with at least a division of tanks, supported by several Corps of infantry," Hasegawa's adjutant hurriedly explained, "Intel's still coming in, but from what we're hearing, Natchez is getting the living shit beaten out of him. His line is crumbling."

"Damn it all…" Hasegawa breathed. That sparked a slight reaction from everyone in the room; Hiroshi Hasegawa usually never cursed. His soldiers affectionately referred to him as the 'Old Samurai', acknowledging both his Japanese heritage and his serene, calm personality. Hearing _him_ swear, of all people, had to mean that the shit everyone was probably in was deeper than they thought.

"Sir, I'm getting live updates for our holo-table from one of Colonel Dominique's recon craft," one of the HQ operators said to the Corps Commander, "I'm patching it through now."

As Hasegawa watched, the mass of red dots arrayed against the lines of blue dots which made up 5th Division had suddenly surged forward, every single one. Infantry and armor. The red dots crashed into the blue dots. As Hasegawa, Fairbanks, and the nearby HQ personnel watched, the blue dots which made up 5th Division wavered. Every second, more and more of 5th Division broke formation and fled northwest into the city.

Hasegawa shifted his focus to 3rd Division's lines the southeast. Nothing was attacking from the southeast, but Hasegawa quickly saw that the Rebs didn't need to. Once they broke through 5th Division's lines, which would happen really soon…

"COM! Quick, patch me through to General Armistead!"

"Already done, sir," an operator beckoned Hasegawa to approach.

The Corps Commander seized the COM and activated it. "Lothario? Lothario, do you read me?"

"I hear you loud 'n clear, sir!" the older, Virginia-accented voice of Major General Armistead responded from his HQ further to the south. "Sir, what in hell is going on to the east? My HQ is getting all kinds of-"

"Lothario!" Hasegawa interrupted, his voice sharpening with severe urgency, "Lothario, listen to me and listen closely; pack up. Pack everything up. Get into contact with your regimental and battalion commanders; get your division out of there! Fall back to the northern outskirts of the city and regroup, over!"

"Sir, may I ask-"

"There's no time, general!" Hasegawa snapped, his cool, reserved demeanor faltering for a brief moment. "5th Division is being driven back; your division will be trapped and surrounded if you do not fall back immediately!"

"Sir," Armistead continued to argue, "Sir, why not send us over to reinforce-"

"You are not understanding me, Lothario! 5th Division's lines are smashed, gone! It's only a matter of time before the Rebs start pouring into the city behind you; you need to get moving _now!_"

"Yes, sir," Armistead said abruptly, ceasing his arguments. "3rd Division out."

* * *

"Aw, hell," was the first thing out of Captain Finch's mouth.

"You put it succinctly as ever, captain," Major Rawlins muttered.

"Any word on _why_ HQ has decided to pull us all back?" Captain Regina Bridges—commander of Golf Company—inquired her battalion commander.

"I was getting to that," Major Rawlins replied. "Colonel Halpern's orders came straight in through Division from II Corps HQ; this is General Hasegawa's doing. According to live intel, 5th Division is about to get kicked flat. They're falling back to the northern outskirts of the city. If we don't get moving now, the Rebs will pour into the city behind us and cut us off. Now, there is no more time for discussion; get back to your companies and get them ready to retreat."

"Sir!" the three company commanders of 3rd Battalion all snapped to attention and fired off quick salutes to Major Rawlins before turning on their heels and hurrying out.

"Good luck, gents!" Captain Finch called out to Bridges and Stackhouse as he headed off towards the center of 3rd Battalion's section of the line.

Captain Stackhouse sprinted for all he was worth back to India Company's portion of trenches and foxholes. "All platoon leaders, report!!" Stackhouse roared above the top of his lungs. The shout left his throat feeling raw, but its effect was immediate; within thirty seconds all three platoon leaders had assembled in front of him, along with 1st Sergeant Haywood. They didn't bother with any salutes; they all knew that he didn't need or want them.

"Gather your men; we're moving out," Captain Stackhouse announced.

"Sir?" Lieutenant Marsden, the commander of 1st Platoon, cocked an eyebrow. Stackhouse could understand why; after fighting, defending, and spilling blood over a line for four days straight, any soldier would instantly question a sudden order which required them to abandon it.

"5th Division is getting the crap pounded out of it," the company commander quickly explained, "We have to get the hell out of here before we're surrounded. Anymore questions? Good, didn't think so," Stackhouse didn't even wait to see if anyone had any; they were out of time.

"Alright, boys; get your asses into third gear!" Haywood bawled, his volume exceeding even Stackhouse's shout. Haywood continued to shout, at that volume, but his voice sounded perfectly fine. Some people just had a natural knack for shouting.

The platoon leaders quickly rounded up their men and got them up and out of the trenches, all of them loaded up with any gear which had been lying around on the ground. Captain Stackhouse and 1st Sergeant Haywood organized them into formation behind the lines, pulling them back towards the city and bringing them up abreast with Captain Finch's 'H' Company to one side and a company from the 103rd Regiment on the other.

After Battalion HQ was disassembled and sent on its way, Major Rawlins personally met with each of the company commanders and got them into formation. 3rd Division would be retreating to the north in three columns, each column comprising of two regiments. The 54th Regiment would be going north through the center of Côte d'Azur behind the 60th.

As the retreat got under way, all Captain Stackhouse could do was sit tight and twiddle his thumbs. Things went slow at first as the vehicles were loaded up with HQ personnel and wounded and sent north. Once that whole operation was completed, the marines were able to proceed unhindered.

Eventually, movement orders came through and 1st Battalion got moving north.

3rd Battalion would be bringing up the rear. Stackhouse's mouth curved upwards in a bitter smile; India Company was the last company of 3rd Battalion. Hell, it was the ninth and last company in the whole 54th Regiment, so it would be his men who would be bringing up the extreme end of the retreat.

"Well, there's them people who say shit like 'patience is a virtue'," a marine corporal with an almost painfully thick New York accent was saying as Captain Stackhouse went around the company touching base with his men. "Well, if you stuck any o' them self-righteous little shits where we's at, bringin' up the goddamn ass-end of a full-scale retreat, they'd probably-"

The corporal broke off when he saw Stackhouse approaching. "Sir!" the noncom nodded respectfully.

Stackhouse returned the gesture. "How're you boys holding up?"

"Fuckin' dandy, sir," the corporal chuckled.

"Ammo's getting low," a buck private complained, but he didn't pursue the issue. Everyone's ammo was low by now.

"Keep it together," Stackhouse said to them. "We'll have defenses ten times better than these ones here up north."

As Stackhouse spoke, 2nd Battalion began to move north after 1st Battalion, leaving Rawlins's men alone behind the lines.

"See you gents on the other side," Captain Stackhouse nodded to the New Yorker corporal and continued on. After another few minutes, 3rd Battalion began to get moving. Captain Bridges formed up her company first and began to follow 2nd Battalion, followed in turn by Captain Finch's company.

"India Company!" 1st Sergeant Haywood barked. "Move out!"

I Company got to its feet, grumbling and complaining, but nevertheless getting the job done.

The retreat was fairly uneventful for the first hour. The 54th, following the 60th Regiment, found itself nearing downtown Côte d'Azur within the first hour of the march. The other two columns reported likewise. Captain Stackhouse cast the towering skyscrapers of downtown Côte d'Azur quick glances as he moved along. The whole thing reminded him unpleasantly of the Battle of Ainsdell; on Irivet V those windows probably would have been filled with mortar emplacements or snipers.

India Company passed a luxury hotel which was supposed to have housed General McCandlish's Command HQ. Now, it was completely empty, but the ground was still littered with trash and remnants of what the HQ personnel had left behind. Stackhouse snapped the building a mocking, half-hearted salute and continued on.

It wasn't until the 54th was beginning to emerge from downtown Côte d'Azur when the Insurrectionists began to take small bites out of them.

Captain Stackhouse heard the faint whine of the bombers before most of the rest did. "Take cover!" Stackhouse screamed as the squadron of Insurrectionist aircraft came into view.

The cry erupted from the throats of every noncom in the vicinity. At this point, there were no marines who were green; the past few days had seasoned them pretty well, and all the rest who fought at Irivet were hardened veterans. All of them knew what to do when hostile aircraft came by for a visit.

Debris exploded in every direction as machineguns tore up the asphalt of the street and bombs from the air-strike blew huge craters in the ground. Glass and wreckage was thrown all over the place as the buildings lining the main road took a beating as well.

Something smacked Stackhouse in the head as he dove behind a dumpster. He looked down onto the ground and saw part of an unlucky marine's leg lying on the ground. He ignored it and stayed down, hunkering against the dumpster as the Insurrectionist fighters dropped their payloads on the 54th Regiment's head.

After what seemed like hours, the Insurrectionist air squadron passed over. The whole ordeal had lasted only forty or so seconds. Stackhouse picked himself up, shaking his head and getting the ringing out of his ears. Screams of the wounded filled the air, along with the acrid scent of the exploded ordinance.

Marines were slinging wounded comrades over their shoulders or calling for corpsmen to get them onto stretchers.

As Stackhouse began to organize his men, he heard the whine of the Insurrectionist fighter craft again. "Oh shit, they're making another pass!" the company commander shouted. "Get back to cover! Keep your heads down!"

Shouts and orders rose up from all over the road which the 54th Regiment was retreating down as noncoms and platoon leaders threatened their men with every horror possible short of thumbscrews if they didn't keep themselves under cover.

Stackhouse spotted the Insurrectionist fighters coming in from the west, flying in wedge formation for maximum reach. The sounds of their engines grew louder as they drew nearer and nearer.

If Stackhouse had known any prayers, he would have said them right then, but he had never been a religious man.

The ground began to shake as the Insurrectionist fighters approached. Suddenly there was an explosion, but not one from the ground. Stackhouse looked back up to the sky in time to see an Insurrectionist fighter in flames, plummeting down out of the sky. It fell out of sight and slammed into the ground, accompanied by a loud crash and a plume of smoke.

Another rushing noise was heard as a squadron of UNSC longsword fighters swooped in from the east, taking the Insurrectionist fighters by complete surprise. Two more of the enemy fighters were shot down; they were bombers, not equipped for fighting off fellow aircraft. The longswords broke formation and came at the Insurrectionists from two directions, effectively driving them away and saving the lives of a good number of marines on the ground.

Whoops and cheers erupted all over the street from the marines breaking cover.

"Hot damn!" a nearby lance corporal exclaimed, "Never thought I'd be so happy to see those goddamn flyboys!"

Stackhouse got back to his feet and dusted himself off, checking his MA6A for any damage. 3rd Battalion got back on its feet and, within a minute, was back up and retreating north. Pelicans and warthogs ferried the fresh wounded from the backs and shoulders of fellow marines to wherever the field hospitals were being set up in the Black Hills.

"Sergeant Haywood, I need a status report!" Stackhouse called over to his acting-exec when he spotted him.

1st Sergeant Haywood jogged over, gathering Stackhouse's required information. "Sir, we've taking seven casualties from that air strike; two dead and five wounded. Lieutenant Midlim was one of the ones who were hit; he took a few heavy slugs to the leg and the corpsmen weren't sure if the miracle-workers behind the line would be able to save it."

Captain Stackhouse swore under his breath. "Alright, find Staff Sergeant Lamar; he's got 2nd Platoon now until we get a new platoon leader or until Midlim gets off the shelf. _If_ he gets off the shelf..."

"Yes, sir," Haywood walked off with a nod, searching for the indicated sergeant.

Captain Stackhouse sighed again, running a hand over his face. With Midlim down, India Company had lost three of its five commanding officers, along with Baker and Young. So far, luck and fate had kept Captain Stackhouse from joining his comrades in the hospital or in the ground. The thing about luck was that, while it kept soldiers alive, it always ran out if it was relied upon for too long.

Stackhouse believed his chances would be improved once his company reached the Black Hills, but how long would he be fighting to defend those hills? How much longer could his luck hold out?

Stackhouse hoped he would never find out.

The company commander walked with his men for the rest of the afternoon until, at last, the 54th Regiment arrived at the edge of the northern outskirts. The Black Hills were visible to the north, as was the ocean to the west. Behind them, Côte d'Azur burned, in Insurrectionist hands.


	53. Chapter 52: Love and War

Chapter Fifty-Two: Love and War

**1958 hours, November 21, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Days Later)  
Elpis, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC **_**Blood and Iron**_

Seventy-five minutes. That was how long Alex-G004 had been able to sleep before the outside world came back knocking on his door. Well, it wasn't literally _knocking_; it came in the form of a loud, persistent beeping noise. Nevertheless, the damage was done; Alex was woken up.

The Spartan-III mumbled unintelligibly to himself as he gradually returned to consciousness. He pushed the covers off and managed to sit up, allowing himself a lengthy yawn and a good stretch. He looked around himself, but had trouble seeing anything; the cabin was that dark. Even with his augmented retinas, Alex still had to squint to see. However, with the advances in technology, he had no need to exert himself.

"Lights!" Alex called out. The command registered with the voice-activated sensors and a series of neon tubes hummed to life, bathing the admiral's quarters in a soft illumination. Not blinding, but more than enough to light the room.

Next Alex looked to his left and found the source of the beeping; his personal COM unit set into the small stand next to his bunk. "Let's see what the universe has decided to throw at me _this_ time…"

Alex activated the COM unit, stopping the obnoxious beeping. "Room service?" the Spartan grumbled.

"Close, but no cigar," deeper, husky voice of Colonel Angiers chuckled in reply. "I need you two in the mission briefing room immediately."

Alex didn't bother arguing with the ONI colonel. He let out a weary sigh and told Angiers that they would be there. Angiers thanked him and killed the channel.

Alex turned around and gazed down at his wife, who was still asleep on the other side of the bunk. She had slept through the whole conversation without even twitching.

That wasn't surprising; soldiers who had fought in the Great War had had to learn how to sleep through Covenant plasma barrages; snoring right through something as simple as a makeshift alarm clock was a cakewalk.

Alex's mouth twitched in a faint grin as he looked at Sam. Every once in a while, he would simply marvel at how lucky he had been to have her. When he really thought about it, he was luckier than he thought. From the moment when he had first met her—in a pelican on Onyx, over twenty years ago—things had, for the most part, turned out in their favor. They both passed the selection process for Gamma Company on Onyx, and then they had even been placed in the same team. Of course, their greatest accomplishment had been surviving the Great War.

Alex's smile widened as he leaned over and picked up his pillow. With a quick Hail Mary, he chucked it at his wife. The pillow struck her in the head, making her leap out of the bed with a startled yelp.

Alex's laughter filled the air as he watched his wife's reaction. "HAH-I've never seen you jump like that since that one time back on Onyx when Robin and Tyrone slipped ice into your-"

Alex's reminiscence was cut short by a second pillow smacking him right in the face. He shook his head and regarded his wife silently. "Call it even?" Sam offered.

Alex, seeing the olive branch, accepted without hesitation. "Even," he agreed, with another slight chuckle.

"Now, I'm assuming you woke me up for another reason besides trying to end our marriage?" Sam asked as she crossed over to the footlocker at the foot of her side of the bunk, taking out a set of combat fatigues to put on over her undergarments.

"Well…yes," Alex admitted, walking around the bunk over to the footlocker and doing likewise, "Angiers just radioed up; he wants to see us in the mission briefing room which we were questioned in."

"Ah…" Sam nodded, straightening out her shirt and lacing up her boots. "Wonder what surprises the spook has in store for us now?"

Alex finished lacing up his second boot and stood up, allowing himself another good stretch before heading for the door. Sam followed right behind him. The two Spartans stepped out into the corridor as the doors hissed open. The couple made their way through the groups of naval personnel also populating the corridors to the nearest lift.

Alex cleared his throat and called out, "Deck Ten!" The lift instantly registered the command and began to move, ascending to deck ten from the deck Alex and Sam had previously been on. The lift came to a halt and its doors opened, revealing another network of corridors nearly identical to the ones on every other deck.

Sam led the way through the corridors until they came to the familiar junction which the sub-corridor leading to the mission briefing room was located at. Sam headed down that hallway first, walking right up to the doors. The two guards at the door stepped to the side and allowed the Spartans to pass.

The doors slid open and the Ambroses walked through. Inside the room were none other than Admiral Al-Hassin and Colonel Angiers, both sitting at the table in the center of the room.

Al-Hassin snapped the two Spartans a quick salute, saying, "Glad you two could join us."

"Ready to take us off the shelf, I'm assuming?" Sam asked, not rudely.

"That about sums it up, yes," Al-Hassin nodded. "I received Admiral Rich's confirmation of your identities, so I can allow you to be released."

"What of our friends from the Magistarium?" Alex asked. "When will they be released?"

"We're working on it," Al-Hassin assured the Spartans, "but we cannot exactly send them down to the surface along with you; they would not mix well with our marines."

"Well, they didn't come halfway across the Orion Arm with us to spend the entire battle locked up in a cell," Sam argued, her voice growing hard.

"No disrespect intended, but that is not your call to make, _petty officer,_" Al-Hassin emphasized the rank. Sam backed down, a seed of respect for the admiral planted in her heart. Not many officers had the minerals to stand up to an annoyed Spartan.

"We are not leaving your friends to rot in there, but until we can finish interrogating them they must remain right where they are," Admiral Al-Hassin explained. He cleared his throat and moved on to other, simpler topics. "Now then, back to business. I will let the colonel explain what is to become of you two."

Colonel Angiers got to his feet and began to speak. "I'm going to be brief; there is not much to explain right now. Early tomorrow morning, we are going to be sending you planetside to Côte d'Azur. We have lost communications with the First Expeditionary Force, but we know they are defending the city of Côte d'Azur from Insurrectionist ground forces, keeping them away from the control center of the orbital defense grid."

"How do we intend to send us in, with the Insurrectionist fleets between us and the planet?" Sam asked next.

"We will discuss that at a later time," Angiers replied simply. "It will be much easier to show you."

"When you reach the surface, your orders are to report directly to General McCandlish; he will tell you which way is up," Al-Hassin told the two Spartans. "So get back to your quarters and rest up; we'll be calling for you at 0015 hours. That will be all, you are dismissed."

Sam and Alex got back to their feet and, after snapping the admiral and the colonel quick salutes, turned on their heels and headed straight out of the room.

"It's not right, keeping Jess and Blaze cooped up like that," Sam muttered as she and her husband walked back into the lift. "They came here to fight; they deserve to fight. They've probably fought longer than a good deal of the boys in green-black on the surface."

Alex ordered the lift to drop down to the deck which the brig was located on. "We should probably visit them one last time," the blue-eyed Spartan sighed, "Least we can do."

Sam gave a hum of agreement as the doors hissed open, allowing the Spartans to walk through. Alex led the way this time through the labyrinth of corridors which ran through the interior of the _Blood and Iron_. Soon, they reached a large set of double-doors which opened by slitting into four pieces and sliding back into the walls, floor, and ceiling.

A petty officer who looked like boredom was going out of style lounged behind the console desk in the front room of the brig. He recognized the two Spartans almost instantly—word of the super-soldiers' presence on board had spread throughout the crew like a wildfire in a forest of dry twigs. "They're the only ones being kept in here," the petty officer said, already knowing what the Spartans were there for, "go on back, and please don't try to break them out; it wouldn't go well with my superiors."

"Mm-hmm," Sam grunted, heading straight for the corridor behind the console desk. Alex followed his wife into the hall. Lining both sides of the short corridor were medium-sized holding cells, separated by thick titanium walls, but without anything in front. Two of the cells had glowing force-fields barring the fronts of the only two occupied cells. Alex and Sam walked up to the first cell and saw O'Riley inside, fast asleep. They had nothing to say to him, and so they moved on to the second cell.

"Hey!" Blaze leaped out of his cot in the corner of the cell, running up to the force field. The black-haired thirteen-year-old stopped himself from hitting the force field just in time, but he still cut it pretty close. "You finally letting us out?"

Sam shook her head. "No dice, kid," she said apologetically, "It's not our call. They need to finish questioning you."

"They've been at it for two freakin' _days_ already," Blaze grumbled, sitting back down on the floor, resting on his elbows. "What more can they possibly have to ask?"

"You'd be surprised…" Alex murmured.

Jess sat on the edge of her cot, not bothering to move. "You're leaving, aren't you? That's why you've come now, of all times," she guessed, pretty much summing up the Ambroses' visit. Her voice lowered and she asked quietly, "Have you found him?"

Sam shook her head dejectedly. "No…no, he isn't with the Insurrectionists here…we have no idea where he is."

"He'll come," the voice nearly startled Sam and Alex when it issued suddenly from the adjacent cell. Liam O'Riley sat on his cot near the force-field, now awake and alert. "He'll be here soon," the former deputy director of Shade Branch said, "And when he arrives…believe me; you'll know when he arrives. The Director must have taken him on a detour to link up with the Weapon; otherwise it would be here already. Be patient."

"Find him," Jess almost whispered, her voice adamant with resolve and determination. "Find him, alright? Tell him…tell him that I'm sorry…I'm sorry that I wasn't able to-"

Alex held up a hand, quelling the thirteen-year-old. "He'll get the message," the blue-eyed Spartan chuckled. "We have to get going, so…well, if we never make it back…well, just good luck, aight? Good luck to you both."

Sam and Alex exchanged farewells with the two Illuminati youths and terse, but mutually respectful nods with O'Riley as they left. The two Spartans walked all the way back to the lift and returned to their deck, heading straight back into their quarters.

Alex flopped out on his side of the bunk, lying motionless for a few seconds before pulling himself back up, peeling off his shirt, and pulling the blanket up over himself. Sam slipped in next to him. Alex rolled over and rested an arm over his wife's side. She held his hand with her own and the two of them lay there in silence for a few minutes.

Alex was content to let the moment last as long as possible; he and his wife had rarely had the chance to be together on their own in a long time. Odds were they wouldn't get another chance for a long while, either. Love had no place on a battlefield.

"I miss him, Ace," Sam murmured to her husband, using the old nickname which she had called him during the Great War. "I miss him so much…"

"We'll find him, Sam," Alex said firmly.

"Will we?" Sam let out a deep breath and rolled over onto her other side, coming face to face with her husband. "Will we, Ace?" she asked, "We should have found him in the Cruciamentum on Nemesis III. We should have _found_ him in Portus Illuminatus; both times we missed him by a matter of minutes, and then days. Will we find him here? The way it looks to me, the universe seems pretty keen on keeping us and him apart-"

"Hey," Alex's voice grew stern. He pressed his forehead against Sam's and said, "Don't think like that. It does us no good and it doesn't help Robin. '_If you march into battle expecting to fail, odds are that you probably will,_" the blue-eyed Spartan said, reciting one of the many mantras the Spartans had learned as kids in Camp Currahee on Onyx, during their training.

Sam had to see the logic in that. "Oh, you're right…I just get stressed out by this…this whole…_thing_ sometimes…"

Alex decided to change tack. "So…what do you make of Jess? I mean, we've certainly gotten to know her and Blaze during our trip here, but-"

Sam's laughter was not cynical or bitter—this laughter was actually lighthearted and amused. "Oh, she's got the hots for Robin; she couldn't make it any more obvious if she said so with a bright neon sign bolted to her forehead."

"Kind of makes me nostalgic, you know?" Alex chuckled, "Reminds me of the old days on Onyx…those nights in the forests evading the DIs…and our banyan tree…"

The memories brought a smile to Sam's face. "I remember that tree…"

"Or our place on the banks of the Twin Forks River…that was where our first kiss was," Alex murmured.

Sam leaned in close and kissed her husband, prolonging it for several seconds. "Like that?"

"Yeah, like that."

"Only you kissed like a nine-year-old," Sam chuckled.

"Hmm, maybe that's because we _were_ nine years old."

"Really? I thought we had been ten…"

"No, we were definitely _nine_," Alex said stubbornly, completely certain.

"Well forgive me; I don't have a sniper's knack for precision," Sam rolled her eyes. She remained silent for a minute or two, deep in thought with herself. Alex was brushing her hair out of her face, but she barely noticed. "Well…" she finally murmured, returning to reality, "I wouldn't want to be one of the sorry sods who are holding Robin when we find them…I bet that he's already threatened them with us…"

That was enough to make Alex chuckle. "Yeah, I bet he has…he probably threatened O'Riley with us, and that Holtz character, too…if whoever the Illuminatus really was isn't shaking in his boots with fear right now, then he damn well _should_ be…"

Sam's laughter mixed with Alex's. "What was it that those ancient Greek warriors used to do in the old days? _First we drink, then we fight_."

"Well, we can't exactly get wasted when we're going to be dropped into the biggest battle since the end of the Great War in just a few hours."

"It was just a saying, Ace," Sam chided her husband, "I'm just saying…we probably won't get another night like this for a long time, maybe even forever…"

Alex caught the drift and allowed himself a full smile, something which he hadn't done with happiness since before his son had been kidnapped in the beginning of August. Sam and Alex both looked right at each other. Pine green eyes met electric blue, and between them passed unanswered questions and reassurances. They both gave a barely perceptible nod; they _would_ find their son, and they _would_ make the sorry sons of bitches who had torn him away from them even sorrier.

Alex and Sam leaned in close once more and their lips brushed. They left it at that for a few seconds before going into a full kiss and embrace. Alex returned his wife's advances, giving himself over to the pent-up emotions which had been welling up inside of him for the past four months. Time lost most of its meaning, sliding by like water in a sieve; unobstructed, smooth, free…

* * *

Alex-G004 lay back on his half of the bunk in the small quarters given to him and his wife by Admiral Al-Hassin. He was panting heavily, trying to recover his breath. Next to him, Sam-G113 was doing likewise.

"Wow…" was all Alex said, pulling himself into a sitting-up position and lacing his fingers behind his head.

"We haven't gone three times in a night since we were teenagers," Sam breathed, resting her head on her husband's chest.

Alex chuckled at that. He exhaled and let his arms fall to his sides, caressing a finger down his wife's back. He felt Sam shiver from the movement. "Maybe we should get ready soon," the blue-eyed Spartan mumbled.

"Not a chance in Hell," Sam's reply was. She lifted up her head and put an arm around her husband's neck, drawing him close. "My turn to play slacker."

Alex kissed his wife right in the nape of her neck and worked his way up until he reached her mouth again. Like the rest of the night, if someone had asked them how long they went, they wouldn't have been able to answer.

Just as Sam and Alex started to sink back down into the pillows, the loud, obnoxious _**beep beep beep**_ of the COM unit on the stand next to the bunk cut through the small quarters.

It took the two Spartans a few minutes to hear it, and when they did their first impulse was to ignore it, but after another few minutes it was clear that it wasn't going to go away.

"Well, fuck…" Sam sighed, breaking off and lying back on her pillow.

Alex muttered something along those same lines as he rolled over and reached out to the COM, activating it and stopping the wretched beeping. "Yeah?"

"What the hell were you two doing in there; I've been calling for nearly ten minutes!" Colonel Angiers sounded flustered and extremely impatient.

"Been a while since we've gotten any sleep, sir; took us a little while before it woke us up," Alex's excuse was.

"_Right,_" Angiers responded, though Alex could tell that the Colonel was really saying _bullshit_. Thankfully, Angiers let it rest and moved on to more important matters. "It's time, Alex. We need you two down in sub-cargo bay 17 immediately."

Alex's ears perked up. Sub-cargo bay 17 was a highly-restricted area on the _Blood and Iron;_ something was definitely up. "Anything special I should know ahead of time?"

"No," Angiers's reply was, "just make sure you're nice and flexible by the time you get down here. Angiers out."

Alex deactivated the COM with a cryptic look. After a second, he sighed and shrugged; the ONI officer would explain what he meant sooner or later.

"They want us, don't they?" Sam asked, rolling over to Alex's back and talking to him over his shoulder. "For the battle?"

"Mm-hmm," Alex murmured, turning over in the bunk so that he was facing his wife once more, "Angiers just radioed up; they want us down in the restricted cargo-bay."

Sam gave an interested hum. "I won't even bother asking what for; no self-respecting ONI officer would give us a sensible explanation right away…"

"Well, I won't tell you you're wrong," Alex grinned, planting one last kiss on his wife's lips before pushing back the blanket and swinging himself out of bed. He looked around the floor and found his some of clothes and Sam's scattered all over the room. "How did everything get thrown all over the place?" the blue-eyed Spartan murmured, wondering aloud.

Sam shrugged innocently. "No idea."

Alex pulled on his boxers and camo-pattern pants, looking around for his shirt. "Honey, you see my shirt anywhere?"

"Yeah, it's over here," Sam hopped out of the bunk as well and picked her husband's shirt up, tossing it over to him. She quickly slipped into her undergarments and fatigues before scouting out her socks and boots. Both Spartans laced up their boots in record time, getting back up to their feet and heading for the door.

"Sam…your hair," Alex cautioned his wife.

Sam took a quick look in the mirror. Her hair was…well, it wasn't exactly tidy, so she quickly ran a hand through it and smoothed it down enough so that people who saw it wouldn't jump to conclusions.

That done, the Ambroses left their quarters for the last time, making their way down the corridors to the lift which they had used before. They waited in front of the lift for a few seconds as the weight-sensitive sensors in the floor picked up their presence and called the lift over to their location. The doors hissed open and the Spartans walked in.

Once inside, Alex called out the location of his and Sam's destination. "Sub-cargo bay 17!"

The lift did not move. A light appeared at the ceiling and a voice spoke out of the walls. "You are asking to be diverted to a restricted area; please provide proper identification by placing your eye near the retina-scanner," the voice instructed. The voice was a deep baritone—the voice of the shipboard AI, no doubt.

Alex and Sam both moved over to the small retinal scanner and held their right eyes close to it, blinking briefly as the laser snapped out to read them.

After they were done, the AI must have been satisfied, for the bright light snapped off and the lift lurched and began to descend down into the bowels of the _Blood and Iron_.

The lift came to a stop close to the bottom of the fleet carrier and towards the center of the ship. The lift came to a halt and hissed open, revealing a short hallway lit by dim, red lights. Alex and Sam stepped out of the lift, warily proceeding down the short corridor and to the doors at the other end. When they reached the doors, they hissed open as well, revealing a large cargo bay filled with weaponry equipment, special equipment, supplies, and what looked like a type of sub-prowler occupying the center space.

Across the sub-cargo bay was Colonel Angiers and a team of ONI technicians. They were standing near a row of large walk-in cylinders slightly larger than cryo-pods. Alex looked closer at the containers and visibly jumped with surprise when he saw what was inside. He felt Sam stiffen beside him as she did likewise.

Inside three of the containers were none other than three suits of pure black MJOLNIR Power Armor.

"Alex, Sam, good to see you both," Colonel Angiers gave them a friendly nod, something unusual to see from an ONI officer. "I don't think I need to explain what your purpose for being here is," the ONI colonel began, gesturing to the power armor suits behind him.

"MJOLNIR Power Armor…" Alex breathed, disbelief rendering his voice quieter than normal. "Am I dreaming?"

"It'll be the best dream you've ever had if you are," Angiers assured Alex.

A deep, almost giddy sense of excitement bloomed in both Alex and Sam; they had never been able to use MJOLNIR before. During the Great War, Spartan-IIIs had used modified ODST-variant armor and Semi-Powered Infiltration armor. Both models were far inferior to MJOLNIR, but MJOLNIR had been much too expensive to produce for over three-hundred super-soldiers.

"I would like to introduce you to MJOLNIR Mark VIII power armor," Colonel Angiers gestured to the suits of MJOLNIR again with a flourish. "All of our other suits are in use by several of your brethren who are already fighting on the surface; these are the spares. However, it is unbecoming of Spartans such as yourselves to fight on the battlefield in your skivvies and fatigues, so we will be issuing you two of these suits. Try not to blow them up; they cost a fortune. Mark VIII has all of the qualities and components of Mark VII and VI, only we have made improvements to the energy shields and the ballistic gel layer. You will be able to withstand much greater impacts and much greater damage than you have ever been able to before. With a suit like this, you could have waded through several files of grunts and jackals from the Great War without even breaking a sweat."

"We were able to do that _without_ MJOLNIR during the Great War," Sam reminded the colonel.

"Of course," Angiers chuckled, "But during that time, you had to dodge bullets—avoid getting shot—to survive. With MJOLNIR, you will no longer need to. Only Spartans can wear this armor, so it's not as if you will be depriving some lucky marine of his chance for fun. I'll turn you over to Mr. Gonzales, here, the Chief Technician in charge of this bay."

Technician Gonzales, a short, tan, mustachioed man with Hispanic characteristics and a slight, Mexican accent gave the two Spartans a quick nod. "Since you two are new to wearing MJOLNIR, we will have to make sure you can make sense of your ups and downs once you're outfitted. Right now, I'm going to have you two get into your armor; no sense in delaying."

A pair of technicians directed Alex to the suit on the right while another two led Sam to the one in the middle.

"MJOLNIR Mark VIII powered assault armor comprises of four main layers," the chief technician explained to the two Spartans as they got situated. "First, there is the external titanium alloy shell; that provides the bulk of the armor's durability, capable of taking great amounts of punishment. It provides cover for your chest-torso area, legs, arms, hips, and calves, with boots and gauntlets for your feet and hands respectively. Second, there is the titanium nanocomposite bodysuit, comprised of a flexible, titanium-based polymer which provides you with the remainder of your protection. Third, there is the reactive metal liquid crystal layer, which forms the inner structure of the suit; this is the crux of the MJOLNIR—it moves with your body and amplifies the force of your muscle movements, increasing your speed and strength five or sixfold. Before, you could flip over or lift warthogs without too much effort; with this MJOLNIR you could practically _throw_ them. And finally, there is the inner skinsuit; this layer does not perform in the area of protection and defense, but it provides you with a suitable environment with changeable temperature and texture in accordance with your bodily needs. Without this layer, you would be wearing half a ton of metal, gel, and crystal directly on your skin."

Alex and Sam listened intently as Technician Gonzales gave a quick run-down on the MJOLNIR's ballistic gel layer and its numerous perks and capabilities. When Gonzales was finished, he took a deep breath. "Alright, I'm going to have you two get those suits on. First, I will need you to remove all clothing before proceeding."

"Come again?" Sam did an almost comical double-take, Gonzales's request taking her completely off guard.

"Your clothes," Chief Gonzales repeated himself. "You cannot wear clothes with MJOLNIR; that is what the inner skinsuit is designed for. Clothes would…well, you just can't wear them; they'll damage the inner workings of the armor."

Sam let out a defeated sigh and obeyed, casting the technicians suspicious glares as she undressed. "Don't get any ideas," she warned them. The technicians all stood rock-still, probably going out of their way to avoid making any kind of expression.

"They're all happily married, honey," Alex chuckled as he peeled off his shirt, tossing it away.

"Never stopped people before…" Sam muttered.

Chief Gonzales waited for the Spartans to completely undress before proceeding. With a sharp whistle, he directed his subordinates to open the MJOLNIR's outer shell. The pressurized suit let out a hiss as it was opened, revealing its insides. A mechanized robotic 'arm' lifted the outer titanium layers up, leaving the second layer of the titanium nanocomposite bodysuit combined with the inner skinsuit. The MJOLNIR's ballistic gel was sandwiched in between those two layers.

Several more mechanized robotic arms partially disassembled the armor, leaving the lower half of the armor fixed to the floor, partially opened. Alex followed the directions of the technicians working with him. He slid his legs into the partially-open armor and pushed until his feet reached the armor's boots. The mechanized arms sealed the MJOLNIR shut around his legs. Piece by piece, his waist, back, chest, and upper torso were also covered in the inner layers of the MJOLNIR until he was left looking like he was wearing an armored vest. The armor for his arms came next, and then his gauntlets for his hands. When the process was complete, his head down to the very top of his neck was the only exposed part of his body. He shuddered as he felt the coolness of the inner skinsuit knitting itself together at a molecular level, becoming seamless, conforming and adapting to his body.

The effect was immediate; when the skinsuit fully adapted to him, Alex could barely feel the armor. Oh, he knew it was there, but with the skinsuit it didn't feel nearly as obvious as it should have. It felt like he was wearing a normal shirt and pants.

Sam's muttered complaints gradually ceased as she felt the same thing. The inner skinsuit felt somewhat refreshing. Undressing for all of the ONI technicians to see was well worth this armor.

After the nanocomposite layer was fully constructed, the mechanized robotic arms, under the careful surgical-like guidance of the ONI technicians, encased Sam and Alex in the external titanium alloy shell. The outer shell was the most durable part of the armor, able to take the greatest amounts of punishment, but it was not a complete shell. It covered the chest and torso, the waist, the legs, calves, feet, and arms, but it did not cover places like the elbow, shoulder, and hip joints, part of the stomach, and the neck. They were completely protected by the flexible nanocomposite layer, but not by the outer layer. This was not too much of a problem, though; the odds of getting hit there were very low, and the energy shields would stop any stray bullets which actually _did_ manage to hit there.

The jet-black MJOLNIR armor was now nearly complete. The mechanized arms all retreated into the ceiling, all except for one; the one with the helmet.

Alex tried to move, but found that he couldn't. He was stuck in the armor, like being stuck up to his neck into a vat of cement after it hardened. A brief sense of panic surged through his mind and he started to struggle, but even his augmented strength was not enough to free himself from the MJOLNIR. He forced himself to calm down, taking deep breaths. A brief glance to the right showed him that Sam had come to the same conclusion. "Why can't I move?" he asked.

"MJOLNIR is power armor," Gonzales explained. "Its power is supplied by the fusion reactor built into your lower back; you cannot see it by looking from the outside, but it is there. Without the reactor, the MJOLNIR is nothing but an unbreakable, lifeless shell; it needs power to be able to move with you. Right now, the fusion reactors are not active, but we will be bringing them online momentarily."

Alex nodded, forcing himself to relax. He did not like the feeling of being trapped like this, but it soon passed. MJOLNIR was like this only for a very small amount of time; the rest of the time, it was what had made the Spartan-IIs into the Titans which they had been.

The technicians cleared out of the container at Gonzales's order. The robotic arm holding the helmet above Alex began to descend. Alex could only look up at it as it came down towards his face.

"Don't look up; look straight ahead," Angiers said to Alex.

The blue-eyed Spartan complied, looking down away from the helmet, staring at a spot straight ahead of him and closing his eyes. The helmet came down over his head and connected with the armor on his neck, sealing itself with a hiss. The MJOLNIR was complete. Alex opened his eyes and gazed out through the MOJLNIR's faceplate. He was still able to turn his head and look around, but the rest of the armor remained stubbornly locked.

"Alright!" Gonzales called out from behind a master console set in a control room up towards the ceiling of the hold. He must have sprinted there during the final phases of the outfitting. "Before I bring you two completely online, I'm going to run through a few basic tests. Stare straight at the wall on the opposite side of the hold. There are a series of four lights built into the wall. I am going to light up each light, and I want you two to look straight at that light when I do."

Alex and Sam both looked straight at the wall and waited for Gonzales's go-ahead. As the chief technician input a series of commands into his console, one of the four lights set in the diamond-shaped square in the far wall winked green. Alex turned his head and looked straight at the light.

"Good, now look at this one…"

The light at the top winked green as well. The two Spartans looked at that one as well. Chief Gonzales ran through the other two lights, and then turned on all of the lights and instructed the Spartans to look straight at each one.

After Sam and Alex did so, he shut the lights off. "Your targeting coordination is sound. I am going to bring your HUD online right now, hold a sec…"

A heads-up display winked into appearance on the inside of the faceplate. It was clearly visible, but it were also transparent, off to the sides, and did not obstruct vision. It was there to be used when needed, but at the same time would never impede a Spartan's ability to fight. There was an empty bar up at the top of the HUD, which displayed the status of the suit's energy shields. At the top-right would normally be a weapons indicator, but neither Spartan was holding a weapon for the gauntlet sensors to detect, so that part of the HUD remained blank. At the top-left was a grenades indicator, but that was also blank. Down in the bottom-left was a small blue circle which was the MJOLNIR's motion sensor, but it was not yet active, as the suit's reactor had not been brought online yet.

"Has everything showed up normally?" Chief Gonzales asked from his observation deck.

"Affirmative!" both Alex and Sam shouted back.

"Alright, that's good!" Gonzales began inputting more commands into his console. "I'm going to bring both of you online now. I want you to step out of your armor stations and walk around a bit, get a good feel for your new bodies. When you are done, return to the cylinders."

Alex felt a small buzz at the small of his back for a moment as the fusion reactor which provided power for the MJOLNIR came to life. The effect was instantaneous; Alex was suddenly able to _move_. It was not the same as just throwing on a suit of armor and then walking around; the MJOLNIR took every small movement he Spartans made and multiplied them. Alex found that when he tried to walk normally, he ended up taking huge, painful strides, straining his legs. He moved to steady himself, but overbalanced and ended up crashing to the floor.

Several of the ONI technicians turned away, hiding their smiles.

He tried to get back up to his feet, but his movements were changed and altered so much that he ended up just sprawling around on the ground. Alex gave a frustrated growl and lay still for a few seconds, rethinking his strategy. He tried getting up again, but this time, he minimized his movements, making smaller movements than he would normally. The armor compensated and made it seem almost normal. Alex made it to his knees and, carefully, stood up.

"How does it feel?" Gonzales asked from the observation deck.

"Different!" Alex shouted back.

"That's what every Spartan has said. Give it a few minutes; you'll get used to it in no time."

After walking around for ten minutes, knocking over a pile of crates, bumping into the wall eight different times, and nearly crushing one of the technicians, Alex found that he was able to move somewhat easier, only with slight difficulty. It was almost like going from a smaller bike to a bigger one; the bigger bike felt different and performed differently than the smaller one, but after it was used for a small while the biker could scarcely remember what it had felt like to ride the first bike.

The same was true for the MJOLNIR. Alex's brain adjusted to the new capabilities of the MJOLNIR, mostly without his knowing it. A normal man might have had a devil of a time with adjusting to the armor, but within ten minutes the Spartans were walking around in their MJOLNIR like they and their armor had been lifelong friends.

After the ten minutes were up, Chief Gonzales called them back into the pods which their armor had been contained in. Alex and Sam both complied, walking back to their containers, turning around, and backing in.

"Alright, I'm removing the final inhibitors in your armor's programming," Chief Gonzales informed them, "This will give you complete control over your armor, and it will also give you your energy shields. Hold still, please…"

As he input one final command, Alex jerked suddenly, feeling a shock course through his body. The feeling vanished after a split-second. The energy shields sprang into existence around the MJOLNIR, shimmering as they charged up before becoming turning invisible. The energy indicator at the top of the HUD turned completely blue, indicating full charge.

"Alright, that's it," Gonzales hollered down, "They're all yours, Colonel!"

"Thanks, Horatio, pleasure working with you!" Colonel Angiers stood up off of the crate which he had been patiently waiting on. "Come with me," the ONI Colonel said to Sam and Alex, gesturing for them to follow.

Sam and Alex followed Angiers out of the restricted cargo bay and into the lift at the end of the short corridor outside. The lift's doors slid to the side, allowing the threesome in.

"Drop bay five!" Angiers called out, allowing the lift to register his command. Less than a minute later, the lift came to a halt and opened up into a larger, longer super-corridor which had currently-unused ODST drop pods lining both sides. Angiers led the way down the aisle in the center to the other end of the drop bay. He placed his palm at a certain place on the wall, spoke a hushed military password, and leaned in close to a small, black square. A green laser snapper out of that square into Angiers's eye, scanning his retina. After a second, there was a slight hiss and a rectangular door appeared in the wall and slid open, revealing another, smaller drop bay beyond.

There were more drop pods in this new drop bay, but they were different. They were slightly larger, more angular, and they were completely black.

"You will be going into Sigma Octanus IV feet-first," Colonel Angiers explained, "But you will not be using normal drop pods; you will be using these."

"Which are…?" Sam let the question hang in the air.

"These are Single-Occupant Exoatmospheric Long-Range Covert Insertion Vehicles; significantly modified HEV pods," Angiers continued. "We will be able to send you both in without having to break through the Insurrectionist lines. You will simply slip right by them. These HEVs have been outfitted with black stealth ablative coating and counter-electronic systems to render them invisible to unfriendly sensors."

"Stealth pods, basically?" Alex summed the whole thing up in a few words, a skill which he was beginning to become proficient at.

Angiers nodded. "Basically," the colonel agreed.

"What if we head right into an insurrectionist ship; how in hell will any of that fancy technology help us?" Sam asked next.

"These pods are equipped with minor maneuvering thrusters," Angiers replied. "If you end up on a collision course, you will be able to steer out of it. However, if you do have to use the thrusters, you will have to get yourself back on a proper trajectory, otherwise you'll either miss the planet or burn up in the atmosphere. This whole insertion is a big risk, but it is the only way. Now, any last-minute questions? This may well be the last time we see each other."

"Negative," both Spartans said in unison.

"Alrighty, then," Angiers nodded, "Hop right in."

"See you on the other side, Ace," Sam clapped Alex on the back as she climbed into one of the stealth HEVs.

Alex selected the stealth HEV next to the one Sam was climbing into. The blue-eyed Spartan opened the pod up and climbed inside, strapping himself in and bringing the power systems online. He hit one of the buttons to his left and the HEV entrance slid down shut and was sealed.

Colonel Angiers walked past and knocked twice on the front of the stealth HEV._ Ready?_

Alex replied with a knock of his own, rapping his armored fist against the side of the pod's interior. _Ready_.

Alex could hear Angiers do the same with Sam. Alex's MJOLNIR's built-in COM system crackled to life and Sam's voice issued through. "You ready for this, Ace?"

Alex could hear his own heartbeat, but he was not nervous or afraid. He was almost eager. "I've been ready for this for four months."

After a few more seconds, Angiers's voice came over Alex and Sam's COMs, saying, "Good luck, Spartans. Until we meet again."

Alex took a deep breath and gripped the hand-grips situated at the base of the arm cavities set into the back of the HEV, which the occupant lay on. He felt a small jolt as the stealth pod began to move. His view of the drop bay was replaced by a generic bronze-red-lit titanium as his pod was lowered through the expanse of hull separating the drop bay from the underbelly of the _Blood and Iron_. Finally, the viewport set into the front of the stealth pod rewarded Alex with a brilliant vista of star-sprinkled black. Sigma Octanus IV was visible in the distance, along with the hundreds and hundreds of Insurrectionist ships barring the Seventh Fleet from the planet.

With a final jolt, the stealth pods were launched free from the fleet carrier. Alex looked down through the viewport at Sigma Octanus IV, which, nanometer by nanometer, was growing larger as the stealth pods slid through space towards it.

"Let's go get 'em."


	54. Chapter 53: Old Intel is Bad Intel

Chapter Fifty-Three: Old Intel is Bad Intel

**0049 hours, November 22, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Covert Insertion HEV, en route from Elpis**

Alex-G004's gaze did not waver. The slightest moment of distraction could prove fatal. Right now, he was in a long-range covert insertion HEV pod heading towards Sigma Octanus IV. The catch? Roughly one thousand Insurrectionist ships stood in his way.

Alex kept his hand on the controls for the HEV's maneuvering thrusters, praying that he would never have to use them. "Everything holding up in your neck of the woods?" Alex said over his private COM channel.

"Yeah, nothing special yet," the reply was from Sam, who was in her HEV somewhere near Alex's own.

Alex remained silent for a few minutes, staring at the Insurrectionist ships as they grew larger and larger in the viewport. The COM crackled to life suddenly and a fuzzy, distorted voice which Alex was only just able to recognize as that of Admiral Al-Hassin managed to issue through.

"Foxtrots One and Two," Al-Hassin said over the COM, using generic callsigns so that he did not broadcast Alex and Sam's names over the net, "Be advised that you will have inbound company soon; the Rebs are mounting another assault on my fleet."

"Acknowledged," Sam's response was.

The signal from the _Blood and Iron_ cut out and faded away. Alex let out a sigh, interspersed with whispered expletives. Sure enough, a group of twelve or thirteen Insurrectionist ships were breaking off from the rest of their fleet and were heading towards The Seventh Fleet's position at Elpis. That took them right into Sam and Alex's pods.

The stealth pod's proximity alert began to beep, alerting Alex to incoming craft. Alex was able to spot the incoming squadrons of Insurrectionist starfighters with his HUD's motion trackers as well. "_Shit_…" the blue-eyed Spartan swore, tightening his safety restraints and gripping the thruster controls.

"Ace, I think we should go for a burn!" Sam said to her husband over the COM.

Alex craned his neck up to the viewport and was just able to spot his wife's transponder signal several hundred meters to his pod's left. "Let's get through these fighters first," Alex suggested, "If we do a burn right now we could end up crashing right into one of these starfighters and give away our position, if the impact doesn't kill us."

"Alright," Sam replied, killing the channel afterwards.

Alex kept a steady eye on the oncoming starfighters. They came within two hundred yards of his pod. The proximity alert began to go crazy, but Alex silenced it with a well-aimed fist. He calculated their range and speed, estimating the time of impact with his pod, silently counting to himself.

When he reached a certain number, he hit the thruster controls, propelling his pod to the left and just barely missing the lead Insurrectionist space fighter. He worked with the controls with a surgical precision, navigating his way through the formations of space fighters. Twice he nearly collided with them and once his pod actually scraped a nearby fighter. The impact was very slight, but it was enough to throw his stealth pod way off course.

Alex bared his teeth with frustration as he worked the thrusters, trying to get his pod pointed back at Sigma Octanus IV.

"Ace, what the hell's going on over there?!" Sam exclaimed over the COM. "Your pod is-"

"I nicked one of their fighters," Alex managed to reply, "Attempting to compensate…" Alex fired off the aft thrusters while hitting the port and starboard ones, giving the starboard thruster more juice than the left-side one. This brought his pod's out-of-control movements down to a minimum, until, with one last effort from the retro thrusters, he managed to stabilize his pod's course. He edged the pod back towards Sigma Octanus IV, taking care to make sure his reentry angle wouldn't be askew.

"Alright, I'm set," the blue-eyed Spartan said. "Ready to burn when you are."

"On my mark," Sam's response was.

Alex's thumb hovered over the main propulsion rockets set into the back of the pod, designed to send the pod forward if it ever found itself drifting. It could also serve as an accelerator, in this case, though that was not its original design.

Sam waited for a minute, making sure that the last of the Insurrectionist fighters were well past them. She then came onto the COM and said, "Mark!"

Alex's thumbs stabbed down, hitting the main propulsion rockets. The rockets blazed to life, shooting the stealth pod forward at a greatly increased velocity. This would render it slightly visible to ship's sensors, but ninety-nine times out of one hundred the individuals looking at the sensor data would dismiss the anomalies as...well, _anomalies_.

Alex was thrust back into his seat by the force of the acceleration. Not for the first time, he was grateful for the MJOLNIR he was wearing; g-force would be tearing at his face if not for the pressurized power armor.

Alex kept a close eye out through the viewport. A shadow was cast over his pod as an Insurrectionist cruiser came right into his path. Alex hit the maneuvering thrusters and sent his stealth HEV into a downward curve, diving right below the enemy cruiser. It took all of Alex's willpower to keep him from whooping like it was a rollercoaster.

The blue-eyed Spartan eased back on the maneuvering thrusters, only to have to throw his pod to the right to avoid another Insurrectionist frigate trailing in the cruiser's baffles. Although there was no friction or air resistance in space, there were still the forces of physics. Centrifugal force from the sudden course change would have thrown Alex against the left side of his pod had it not been for his restraints. Even so, the breath was knocked out of him. If he had not been wearing MJOLNIR he probably would have gotten bruised ribs.

"Shit, that was close…" Sam muttered over the COM. "Sigma Octanus IV's getting pretty big in the window, Ace; fix your reentry angle."

Luckily, Sam and Alex's evasions had put them on a reentry course which sent them under the majority of the Insurrectionist fleet. All that lay between them and Sigma Octanus IV were a few Insurrectionist destroyers and corvettes, none of which came into a collision course with either Sam or Alex's stealth HEVs.

It had been nearly half an hour since Sam and Alex's HEVs had been jettisoned from the _Blood and Iron_ back at Elpis, but the constant pressure of keeping vigilant for every small thing which could compromise his safe journey made the whole 'trip' seem like a few short minutes to Alex.

The blue-eyed Spartan waited for another minute before deciding to hit the control for the main propulsion rockets again, ending his pod's controlled burn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam do the same as the nearly invisible blue flames jetting out the back of her pod vanished.

The final Insurrectionist corvette continued on its course around the planet, neatly and unknowingly moving aside for the two stealth HEVs.

Sigma Octanus IV continued to grow in the viewport, much faster now that it was so much closer. Gradually it filled up the entire window until Alex could only see the uppermost curve of Sigma Octanus IV taking up half the viewport, the rest filled with the inky darkness of space. A bluish haze which was the atmosphere hugged the edge of Sigma Octanus IV. It was not visible if you looked right at the planet; it was only visible at the very edges.

Alex's pod gave a slight tremor as it drew nearer to the planet. That was Sigma Octanus IV's gravity well; Alex's pod was now at its mercy.

The altitude readout to Alex's left winked to life, sensing a surface which the pod could descend towards. A rather large number appeared on the readout, rapidly decreasing as Sigma Octanus IV's gravity well pulled the stealth HEV down towards the surface.

Gradually, the star-sprinkled black of outer space was replaced by a deep navy blue as the stealth pods began to descend into the exosphere. The stealth pod began to tremor slightly as the atmosphere's friction began to rub up against the HEV's trajectory.

When Alex's pod hit the mesosphere, the fun really started to begin. The navy-blue hue outside the viewport would normally have lightened, edging towards the normal blue of a sky, but the stealth HEVs were dropping right into Côte d'Azur and it was nearly one in the morning at that location, so the sky was dark with nighttime to begin with.

The color of the sky really wouldn't have made too much difference anyhow; once Alex's pod hit the mesosphere, red and orange tongues of flame began to lick up around the viewport, obscuring his vision. He could just barely see Sam's pod nearby—another blazing star in the night. All he had to go from was the altitude readout, but that was all he really needed.

The pod really began to shake as it descended deeper into the atmosphere. Alex remembered spying a large front of dark gray clouds filled with flickering lightning which was visible even from space. From another quick glance when Sigma Octanus IV's gravity well had seized his pod, he was able to tell that their reentry trajectory—which would take them straight into Côte d'Azur—went right into that cloud bank. Côte d'Azur was having itself one hell of a storm right now, and Alex was dropping right into it.

The flames outside thickened, tearing away at the protective ceramic covering which coated the exterior of the stealth pod. The stealth ablative coating had been destroyed by the heat of reentry, but there was no longer any need for it; it had already gotten Sam and Alex in past the Insurrectionist fleet. Its task had been accomplished; now it was the ceramic coating's turn.

The heat in the interior of the HEV really started to rise. Alex's MJOLNIR compensated for the heat, but he was still able to feel it somewhat. He remembered well how the heat and pressure had felt when he had gone in feet-first into New Mombasa during the Battle of Earth at the end of the Great War. This was nothing compared to the Hell he had gone through then, but it was still no walk through the garden.

The altitude readout continued to descend, lowering into the hundred thousands, and then the ten thousands. Alex kept a close eye on the number, watching it grow smaller and smaller, soon going below ten thousand.

"Coming up on three thousand feet…" Alex murmured over the COM.

"Acknowledged," Sam replied.

The altimeter hit three thousand. When it did, Alex hit the drag chute release. The titanium-A drag chute was jettisoned from the top of the HEV, opening as it went. It opened up fully when it reached its furthest extent, spreading out and resisting the stealth pod's speed, bringing it down from terminal velocity.

Alex was thrown forward, giving a pained grunt as the restraints held him back. Again, he found himself thanking all heaven for his MJOLNIR; the last time he had gone in feet-first in a drop pod, without MJOLNIR, he _had_ gotten bruised ribs from the rapid deceleration of the drag chute.

The drag chute, its task accomplished, detached, burning up in the atmosphere. The drop pod began to accelerate again, but not nearly as fast as it had been going previously.

The altitude readout hit three hundred feet after a few more seconds. Alex's finger stabbed down on the controls for the retro thrusters. The thrusters flared to life, rocking the drop pod one last time, bringing its descent down to a safe speed.

The flames obstructing the viewport had vanished, allowing Alex to see the buildings and streets of Côte d'Azur outside. The drop pod hit the ground five seconds later.

This jolt was not as bad as the drag chute's, but it was still enough to make a Spartan uncomfortable. Alex sat still for a minute, regaining his breath. He reached over and unstrapped himself before hitting the mini-charges set into the front of the drop pod. The charges detonated, blowing the pod's front out into the street.

Alex got to his feet and climbed out, grabbing his SRS99D-S2 AM sniper rifle and magnum sidearm as he went. He put the sniper rifle on the magnetic weapons strip on the back of his armor and slid his magnum onto the similar magnetic strip on his thigh. The blue-eyed Spartan took in his surroundings.

He was in the middle of a pockmarked, deserted street. It was raining, heavily. Thunder boomed and lightning flashed every few seconds, casting the streets of the now-dark city in a momentary light, reflecting off of the drenched asphalt. A good wind also blew through the city. The wind was not overly strong, just strong enough to turn the rain on an angle.

Alex made his way towards the hulking shape of his wife's HEV, which had landed several hundred meters down the road. There was a slight flash as Sam blew her pod's front off. The other Spartan climbed out of her pod, grabbing her sidearm and BR55 battle rifle.

"You in one piece?" Alex called over to his wife, making his way over to her through the rain.

"Yeah, last I checked," Sam nodded, brushing a speck of dust off of her armor. She straightened up and took a good look at her surroundings, squinting through the rain and taking in what she could from what the lightning illuminated. "Where the hell are all of the marines?" she murmured, thinking aloud for her husband to hear, "They're supposed to be all over this place."

"Yeah…" Alex agreed, "And this is _southern_ Côte d'Azur to boot; marines should be swarming all over here. Maybe they're all-"

"What, asleep?" Sam interrupted, "All of them? At the same time?"

"I-"

"Shh!" Sam put a finger to her lips suddenly lowering down to the ground. "I hear something…"

Alex fell quiet and listened. Soon, he could pick out what his wife was hearing from the thunder and the constant pattering of the rain; a mechanical, clanking noise.

"Tanks?" Alex hissed, recognizing the noise.

"There!" Sam gestured down the street, where several dark shapes had slid out of the shadows, rumbling up the road towards the two Spartans. The silhouettes of foot soldiers were visible as well, walking between the tanks.

Alex took a step towards them, raising a hand in acknowledgment. He opened his mouth to call out to them, but bit his tongue when he found that he did not recognize the tanks lumbering towards them. They were not scorpions or dragons—they were bigger than either UNSC model, bigger and more blocky; UNSC tanks were angular and sloped, not like these machines.

Shouts rose from the throats of the infantry accompanying those tanks, challenges. Alex took another step towards them and frowned, noticing that their uniforms were the wrong color. They weren't the green-black battledress of UNSC marines; they were…_gray_.

"Oh, _shit!_" Alex swore, "Sam, _move!_"

As the blue-eyed Spartan shouted, one of the tanks opened fire, sending a heavy high-explosive shell over the Spartans' heads. It hit Sam's drop pod, utterly obliterating the titanium coffin. The Insurrectionist soldiers accompanying the tanks also began to open fire. Weaponsfire tore into the road all around the Ambroses. Sam and Alex's energy shields flared up as they absorbed several hits.

That was the Ambroses' cue. Sam and Alex took off, pounding down the nearest back alley as fast as they could, and not a moment too soon. Another tank opened fire as they ducked away. This time, the tank fired a canister round; a tank round containing pellets which—upon firing—spread out and tore up anything unlucky enough to get in its way. If God ever wanted a shotgun, he would take a 120 millimeter tank barrel which was firing canister shots.

The canister shot tore into the street, blowing several sizable chunks of debris past the alley entrance. The shot would have reduced Sam and Alex to bloody ribbons had they still been standing out in the street.

"Through here!" Alex slammed himself into a door on the right, crumpling it like tinfoil and staggering inside. It was a garage; the Ambroses had landed right in the middle of a residential sector full of closely-packed townhouses. "Get upstairs!" Alex exclaimed as the garage door became filled with sudden bullet-holes as the Insurrectionists began to indiscriminately open fire on the house.

There was a small hovercar in the garage, but Alex circumvented it and Sam slid across its hood, smoothly coming down on the other side and crossing straight over to the door. She tried the doorknob, but it was—not surprisingly—locked. She used her shoulder instead.

Alex stepped through the wreckage of the door after Sam, casting a quick glance throughout the small townhouse. It looked like it would have been a comfortable place to live, had it not been for the storm of lead tearing through its walls, trying to kill the Spartans inside.

Alex and Sam quickly climbed up the staircase to the third and uppermost floor in the townhouse, doing their best to avoid the Insurrectionists' weaponsfire as they went. There was a loud splintering sound downstairs which Alex could tell was the front door breaking down. "They're inside!" he warned.

Sam crossed over to the table sitting in the corner of one of the bedrooms and dragged it back out into the hallway, setting it right under the skylight set into the ceiling. She climbed on top of the table and shattered the skylight with a well-placed fist, allowing the rain to fall through. She then leaped up off of the table and managed to catch the edge of the opening, pulling herself up with a grunt of effort, and climbing up onto the roof. She turned around and knelt by the skylight, holding a hand down to her husband.

Alex climbed up onto the table and leaped up as well—the table collapsed from the effort of bearing the two Spartans right after each other—and grasped his wife's hand. Sam hauled him up through the skylight opening and onto the roof. Alex picked himself up and took off with his wife across the roof of the townhouse.

That was how the two Spartans went for the next twenty minutes; jumping from rooftop to rooftop. Even when the flashes of weaponsfire from the Insurrectionist soldiers faded into the distance, Alex and Sam kept right on running. They didn't stop until they reached an intersection of two main roads, too large a gap for them to leap over. It was of no consequence, though; the Insurrectionist pursuit force was long gone. All that was left in this area were a few odd patrols. Wherever the rest of the Insurrectionists were, they obviously weren't in this part of town.

As Alex climbed down the side of the townhouse, he voiced his doubts with his wife. "There are no marines within sight," the blue-eyed Spartan explained over the COM, "And no sounds of battle nearby, either. That means there are no marines anywhere nearby fighting the Magisterial forces."

"Well, Admiral Al-Hassin _did_ say that his fleet lost contact with the leathernecks on the ground several days ago," Sam recalled. She and Alex dropped down to the street and, after waiting for a patrol of Magisterial guardsmen to round the corner, stole across the street. "A lot can happen in a few days…"

Sam and Alex remained silent, making their way east through the residential area which they had landed in. After nearly an hour of ducking, dodging, and evading, they found themselves in the docks; the eastern reaches of Côte d'Azur which bordered the Sinai Ocean. Wharfs and docks dominated this strip of the city, along with warehouses and storage facilities inland of the actual ports.

There were no Insurrectionists or marines here either. That wasn't surprising, though; the docks were probably the least important part of the city, certainly not worth defending or occupying. However, a good many of the buildings had been reduced to rubble and several fires still burned resiliently against the rain, which had lightened a bit since Alex and Sam made landfall. That meant that a battle _had_ taken place here, despite everything.

"This whole place is quiet…" Sam murmured after another few minutes of silence. "Battlegrounds aren't supposed to be this quiet, even at nighttime. How far back have our lines been pushed?"

"We haven't even run into the Insurrectionist lines yet," Alex grunted, "So I'd say—_shit!_"

The sharp _**crack**_ of a sniper rifle tore through the air suddenly, shattering the monotonous pattering of the rain for a brief moment. A chunk of asphalt flew past Alex's head and a fresh bullet hole appeared two meters in front of him. Even though he had almost been sniped, Alex couldn't help but feel a slight pang of annoyance at the obvious lack of skill the sniper possessed.

"_Cover!_" Sam shouted, diving into a barrel roll behind a dumpster set on the sidewalk. Alex was already a step ahead of her, hunkering down behind the corner of the nearest warehouse.

Another sniper shot rang out, taking a chunk out of the corner of the warehouse.

"Do you have a visual?!" Alex called over to his wife, unclipping his sniper rifle from the magnetic weapons strip on his back and flicking off the safety, edging up to the very edge of the wall which provided him with his cover.

"No!" Sam's reply was, "Hold a sec, I'll draw his fire! Get ready!"

Alex adjusted his grip on his rifle and made a few minute changes to the scope before he was satisfied to continue. "On your mark!" he shouted back.

Sam tensed, getting ready to spring. She spotted another good place where she could take cover; the blackened wreck of an automobile on the other side of the road where she was hunkered down. With that destination in mind, she broke cover, shouting, "_Now!_" and sprinting towards the wreck.

Alex whipped around the corner and took a knee, peering through his scope just in time to see three quick muzzle flashes from the roof of the warehouse just down the road. The _**cracks**_ of the shots came a nanosecond later. _Three rapidly-fired shots in quick succession; all of them misses_, a quiet, logical voice in the depths of Alex's mind observed, _he's jumpy and nervous_.

Alex focused his crosshairs on the sniper and zoomed in, intending to get a quick, clean headshot and finish the job before it even started. The sniper obviously wasn't an experienced sharpshooter; he missed all of his shots, he was spooked, and—even worse for him—he did not relocate or even take cover after taking his shots.

He wouldn't live long to regret his mistakes.

Alex's finger curled around the trigger and he released the breath he had been holding in. He took one last look at the doomed man before firing…only to withdraw his finger from the trigger faster than the speed of light.

"Ace!" Sam shouted from her spot by the wreck, "What the hell's going on; why didn't you shoot the bastard?!"

"He's a marine, Sam!" Alex shouted back, "You want me to shoot a goddamn marine?!"

"Christ, what the hell is a marine doing all the way out _here?!_"

"How about we ask him when he stops trying to pop us!"

Sam paused for a minute to think, throwing around possible ideas. She looked back at her husband and shouted, "Keep him pinned down; I'll move up and get to know him in person!"

"You sure?!"

"No, I'm telling you a joke, _now _of all times!" Sam retorted, rolling her eyes. Alex could tell that she did thus even though her face was invisible behind the reflective golden faceplate of her helmet.

Alex did not bother wasting anymore time with words. He took a knee again and squeezed off a shot at the marine at the top of the warehouse, deliberately missing the man, but landing his shot close enough to galvanize him into ducking. Whenever the man tried to stick up his head, Alex discouraged him with a shot uncomfortable close to his head. As he aimed to take another shot, a second silhouette popped up next to the first, accompanied by another sniper shot. Alex was thrown back several feet by the force of the slug, his energy shields flaring as they absorbed the round.

Alex picked himself back up, swearing at himself. This new sniper knew what he was doing, unlike the other one. Just as the blue-eyed Spartan got back into his position, his COM crackled, negating the need to proceed any further.

"Alright, I'm in," Sam said over their private COM channel.

Alex ceased fire and hunkered back around the corner of his warehouse. The marines returned fire, taking several more chunks out of the corner of the building and the sidewalk. Alex did not retaliate; he simply waited for his wife to contact him.

The marines stopped firing as well. A minute ticked by, then another. Finally, Sam's voice came back over the COM, nearly making Alex jump. "Ace, I've got our mutual friends by the collars right now," his wife said over the COM, "Get up here."

Less than two minutes later, Alex was stepping out of the stairwell onto the uppermost floor of the warehouse, which was a smaller, now-empty storage flat. Sam was there, right near the roof-access stairwell, her rifle leaning against the wall. A thin, jumpy man with a thin, pale face and almost gangly limbs was next to her. Alex recognized him as the first marine with the sniper rifle. He was speaking in rapid-fire speech to Sam, who was just managing to comprehend the gist of what he was saying.

Another, older man with graying hair and icy-gray eyes sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall. His stripes identified him as a master sergeant. There was a bloody bandage tied around his thigh and his uniform was torn and sullied. He looked in far worse shape than the first man, but he was calmer and more indifferent. He was definitely a Great War veteran; vets from the war could be told apart from greenies usually with a simple glance. One glance told Alex that this older man had been through the mill.

"Alex, I'd like to introduce you to Private Stan Leopold, designated command car driver from 1st Division HQ staff," Sam gestured to the pale man, who nearly collapsed under the weight of his avalanche of apologies to the two Spartans.

Alex held up a hand, quelling the young driver. "No need to apologize; with your sniping skills we couldn't have been safer."

The pale man's face gained a little color as it flushed with embarrassment. "I picked that rifle up off of the street yesterday…I haven't been able to-"

"Oh, shut it, Stan," the older man wheezed from his spot on the ground, pausing to cough a few times. A speck of blood appeared on his lips, but he wiped it away. "Believe me," he said to the Spartans, "Once he starts rambling it takes him hours to shut up."

"I can't help it; I babble when I'm scared shitless!" the pale man—Private Leopold—was close to stuttering.

"And who are you?" Sam asked the older man who was sitting on the floor.

"Master Sergeant Harry Irons, yah-de-yah, you know the drill," the older man offered a weary, half-hearted salute.

"My name's Alex," the blue-eyed Spartan introduced himself as well, "and I believe that was _you_ who nearly killed me back there; try to watch what you're shooting at next time."

Master Sergeant Irons's laughter surprised Alex; it was not the reaction he had been expecting. "I know you're a Spartan, and I respect that, but you can blow it out your ass. Son, me and the bag of nerves over there-" Leopold the driver gave a sheepish smile- "have been running and hiding from the Rebs. Every moving thing in this damned city has been trying to kill us for the past three days; our days of identifying our targets has come and long passed. If it stands on two feet and moves, we kill it."

Alex allowed himself a small laugh. This old veteran truly had no fear. "That's probably the first time anyone's ever said that to me," the blue-eyed Spartan chuckled.

"Well, had to break the ice somehow," Irons shrugged, his tone nonchalant.

"What unit are you from?" Sam asked, changing the subject.

"Gold Platoon, 13th Armored," the grizzled master sergeant replied.

"You're a tank commander?" Alex sounded somewhat surprised again. "What is a tank commander doing all the way out here in the docks? No—scratch that question—answer me this: where the hell is-"

"-everyone?" Irons finished Alex's question for him, already knowing what the blue-eyed Spartan was asking. "That's a very good question. To my knowledge, the entire expeditionary force has established a new defensive line in the Black Hills, north of the city."

"_North_ of the city?" Sam echoed, the meaning of the words sinking in. "You mean our forces got completely driven out of the city?"

"Mm-hmm," Irons grunted. "Where have _you_ been all week?"

"In slipspace, then in orbit around Elpis," Sam replied evenly. "We just dropped in from orbit over an hour ago."

"From orbit?" Leopold the driver repeated Sam's last statement, "The Navy's broken through again?"

"Not quite…" Alex quickly explained how they had been inserted via the long-range stealth HEVs and how the Seventh Fleet remained pinned down at Elpis- "…and they said that contact with you guys had been lost early on in the week."

"Which would explain why they would have no idea that we lost Côte d'Azur three whole days ago…" Irons shrugged again, giving a weary yawn. He tried to stand up, but he winced—pain clearly evident on his face—and sat back on the floor.

"What happened to your tank?" Sam asked, curious.

"My unit and a battalion of marines got cut off from the retreat and were driven into this district," Irons explained, "My armored contingent held the Rebs off while the marines escaped to the north. My dragon was hit in the process. The hit didn't blow us up, obviously, but it threw a track. The Rebs were right behind us, though, so we had no time to repair the damage. We had to bail. I was hit in the leg and back after I got out. I lost consciousness…my crew most likely thinks I'm dead."

"Is your tank still operational?" Alex asked next, an idea forming in his mind, piece by piece. "The only thing wrong with it is a thrown track?"

"Well, yes, but we can't fix the thing with just-" Irons broke off as he spoke. He was about to say that it would take more men to fix a thrown track, but he remembered that he was talking to Spartans. One would do, two would be more than enough. "Well, I suppose…if the Rebs haven't screwed with it since I bailed three days ago…if we could fix it without getting blown up in the process…you'll have to help me along, though; I can't walk, not with a bullet in my back. Hell, all that's keeping me together is bio-foam right now."

"What are you guys thinking?" Private Leopold asked, not following the conversation.

"Think: we are trapped in a city full of unfriendlies," Alex explained to the young driver, "Our forces are well to the north, outside of the city. Between us and them is a well-fortified and manned line of Insurrectionist troops which is trying to rout our friends to the north. You know what our lines have looked like when you all were fighting south and east of the city; the Insurrectionist lines are bound to be exactly like that, only stronger and much more heavily manned. Now, how would you be able to walk right through all that without getting torn apart?"

Leopold the driver was at a loss for a minute as he fell silent and tried to figure out the correct answer before finally shrugging and saying, "You wouldn't."

"Exactly," Alex nodded approvingly, "Hence the tank."

"When do we move out?"

"Less than a minute, if we can help it," Sam replied, "Grab yourself whatever you need for the trip right now."

"You fellas ever drive a tank before?" Irons asked as Alex helped him up to his feet.

Alex shrugged. The tank had been one of the few things during the Great War which he and his teammates had never had the chance to pilot. "Always willing to learn."


	55. Chapter 54: Rock Paper Scissors, Tank

Chapter Fifty-Four: Rock Paper Scissors, Tank

**0130 hours, November 22, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**South Docks, Côte d'Azur**

"Toss me the cutting laser," Master Sergeant Harry Irons ordered Private Stan Leopold.

Private Leopold—the HQ staff driver—was kneeling right next to Irons's tool bag which had been stowed inside of his tank. He rifled through the bag for a second before producing a mini-cutting laser from within. He tossed it over to Irons, who caught it and immediately set to work.

"Rebs hit us with a rocket, it looks like," the tank commander observed as he set to work removing the damaged tread from his tank. "And even then, that rocket must have either hit the ground right near us or just barely grazed us…that's the only way I can think of how we could have survived with nothing but a thrown track."

Alex listened with mild interest. He had never fought in a tank before; he had always wanted to try, but had never gotten a chance during the Great War. Now, it looked like he was about to get one. He and Sam were standing on opposite ends of the right side of Master Sergeant Irons's M1-Delta Heavy Battle Tank, or 'Dragon', ready to keep the machine in the air when Irons gave the word.

The unlikely band of two Spartans, a tank commander, and an HQ staff command car driver had set out from their temporary warehouse hideout in the southern docks of Côte d'Azur fifteen minutes ago, dodging Insurrectionist patrols until they reached the place where Master Sergeant Irons's dragon had been hit.

Now, they waited for Irons to get his dragon up and running again. Luckily, no Insurrectionist patrols had come near—the Insurrectionists did not have very many forces in the docks—but Alex knew that he they couldn't be relying on that type of luck for very long.

Alex almost winced at the bright conflagration under the tank's belly from the cutting laser as Irons set to work separating the ruined tread from the areas of the dragon which it had been melted onto by the force of the rocket's explosion. The light was pretty much a beacon, begging any hostiles in the area to come and pay them a nice visit.

The rain would help keep the light of the welding laser under cover, but it wouldn't do much. Everyone would just have to hope that no Insurrectionist soldiers decided to come sniffing around until the dragon was ready to go.

"Either of you any good with engines?" the tank commander asked as he continued to cut away the ruined parts of the tread.

"Not with tank engines," Sam replied, after exchanging a helpless shrug with her husband.

"How about you, Nerves?" the tank commander directed the question at Private Leopold, the driver. Leopold was a thin, pale man. He was easily startled and always seemed to be twitching, earning himself the nickname 'Nerves' from Master Sergeant Irons.

"I can strip and repair a warthog engine or a command car's motor with one arm behind my back while blindfolded," the HQ staff driver replied with more confidence than Alex thought he was capable of possessing, "But I'm kinda rusty with tanks."

"No matter; rusty is better than ignorant," the tank commander reasoned. He paused for a second, swearing as a piece of separated metal fell from the underbelly, nearly braining him. "Take the auto-drill and get the engine panels off in the rear. Check to make sure everything's in proper order, then shut it all back up."

"Okay," Private Leopold did as he was told, pulling the appropriate tool out of Irons's tool bag and getting to his feet, heading around to the back of the tank and getting to work.

Irons continued cutting away at the ruined tread for another ten or so minutes before he gave a warning and lasered away the last section of torn and melted metal. The tread fell away, splaying out onto the road below. The dragon itself rocked, now having only one tread on one side to support itself on. As such, its right side—the side now without a tread—started to fall to the road, but Alex and Sam, still standing at their spots on either end of the tank's side, quickly caught it, holding it up.

The task of holding a tank partially in the air would have been a daunting one before the Ambroses had gotten their MJOLNIR, but now _with_ the power armor it was actually not too difficult. Alex wouldn't want to be stuck holding it all day, but he and Sam would be able to manage for the next few minutes.

Private Leopold finished his inspection of the engine at about the same time. He called out that he could see nothing wrong with the dragon's motor, so he quickly put the armored engine panels back into place and returned to help Master Sergeant Irons out from under the dragon.

Irons pulled himself shakily to his feet, supporting himself on the tank's side. He pulled himself over to a large compartment under the rear of the tank, near the engines. He got back down to the ground and, after getting the power drill from Leopold, opened the compartment up.

A spare tank tread fell out, thudding onto the ground. "Quickly, quickly…" the tank commander breathed as Leopold heaved the tread out from under the tank.

"Movement down the street!" Sam hissed suddenly. Alex snapped his gaze over to where Sam had indicated. Sure enough, a patrol of four Insurrectionist soldiers supported by a warthog had rounded a corner several blocks down the street and were steadily heading towards the place where Irons's damaged tank was situated. They were too far away to spot the tank now, but it was only a matter of time.

"Let's hurry it up, people," Alex urged on the tank commander and the command car driver through clenched teeth.

"Steady…" Irons murmured as he lifted part of the replacement tread on over the wheels, pushing until he heard the satisfying _thunk_ of the tread locking into place. He and Leopold continued to ease the replacement tread into its grooves around the wheels and mechanisms which it was propelled around to move the dragon.

The Insurrectionist patrol moved nearer. Alex started to fidget. He longed to unsling his sniper rifle and take the enemies out right then and there; he would be able to do it in seconds, but that would mean dropping his side of the dragon, which would in turn damage the tank further. He was stuck. He could see Sam going through a similar dilemma.

Irons worked as fast as he could, feverishly directing Leopold and clicking the tread into place. He was about half-way done when the Insurrectionist patrol spotted the tank. A searchlight from the warthog snapped on, bathing the far side of the tank in a blinding white glow.

Alex could faintly hear the murmuring voices of the Insurrectionists as they spotted the tank, curiosity clear in their voice. Alex swore; he could tell that this was the first time that particular patrol had come through here; they had never spotted the tank before. No doubt they would have later reported it in to their command and the dragon would have been either taken in for study or destroyed.

Well, the four UNSC soldiers working on the dragon had no intention of allowing that to happen.

Leopold shimmied over to Sam's end of the tank and quickly started to work the tread into place around the wheel at the end. Luckily, the wheels had been oiled not too long before the tank had been temporarily put out of commission; the tread slid over the wheel without too much difficulty.

"Damn it, sergeant, _hurry up!_" Alex whispered as loud as he could to the two men below the tank.

"Steady…" Irons repeated himself, not wavering from his work.

Three-quarters of the way done.

The Insurrectionist patrol crossed the last street between themselves and the damaged dragon.

Irons told Leopold to keep working, pulling himself away from the tread and crawling out from under the dragon. "Give me your sniper rifle," the tank commander said to Alex. "You can't use it right now; I can."

"It's all yours," Alex gestured with his head for the tank commander to go ahead.

"Nerves, keep working on that tread," Irons ordered the command car driver, "If we don't get it fixed in the next few minutes, Insurrectionist reinforcements'll be tearing us a whole slough of new ones."

"Uh-huh," Leopold replied, only partially paying attention to the older tank commander. He did not speed up very much, though; replacing a tread was not a task which could be rushed.

Alex's arms were starting to feel tired. He had been holding up a tank for nearly ten minutes, now; no one could blame him or his wife for starting to feel sore.

Master Sergeant Irons peered through the scope of the sniper rifle. He was no sniper, but he could hold his own with a rifle. More to the point, he had operated a scorpion tank throughout the Great War. His highlight had been Delta Halo, towards the end of the war. Without going into explicit detail about his exploits in that particular battle, it was perfectly safe to assume that he hadn't survived Installation 05 because he was a poor shot with a tank barrel. Aiming and firing a tank barrel was not a simple business; gunners had to be skilled marksmen in their own way to take out enemy targets when their commanders spotted them.

If Irons could aim with the barrel of a tank, than he could damn well do the same thing with a sniper rifle.

Irons centered the crosshairs on the heads of one of the approaching Insurrectionists and squeezed the trigger. Proper snipers would never have been so hasty in taking the shot, but Irons was not a proper sniper. He saw an enemy, he killed him; simple as that.

The Insurrectionist soldier was thrown back by the force of the sniper round punching through his forehead, a spray of red flying away from the entry and exit wounds. The other three soldiers on the ground and the two in the warthog reacted almost instantaneously. The infantry dove for cover to avoid meeting the same fate as their comrade. The driver of the warthog ducked down below the windshield, retrieving a weapon he had stowed under the dashboard.

Irons squeezed off a second shot at the soldier manning the turret of the warthog, but the round went too low, clanking off of the metal protective shields set around the turret to protect the operator.

The tank commander risked a glance behind himself, checking up on Leopold's progress. The command car driver was nearly finished; he had one last meter of treads which were not yet secured to the wheels.

There was a light thudding noise, accompanied by the sound of something rolling.

Irons saw it coming towards him; a primed frag grenade, tossed by one of the soldiers under cover. Abandoning all sentiments of his personal safety, the tank commander pulled himself out from under the tank and intercepted the rolling grenade, snatching it up and lobbing back out into the street, where it exploded harmlessly in mid-air.

Weaponsfire began to erupt, aimed at the now-exposed tank commander. Irons, ignoring the white-hot pain burning from the bullet lodged in his back, pulled himself back under the dragon. He nearly made it in one piece.

As Irons dragged himself behind the treads, he felt something hit his leg. It was his left leg, the unwounded one. Immediately, his leg felt wet, and Irons knew that it wasn't from the rain.

The tank commander started swearing right afterwards when the pain of the new bullet wound registered in his brain.

"_Shit!_" Leopold shouted, slotting the last segment of the treads into place, "Sergeant's been hit!"

Irons barely heard him. The pain from the wound blotted out most of the sound. He howled like a wolf, letting loose a good amount of the obscenities which he kept in store for special circumstances, such as this.

Leopold shoved in the last part of the treads, waiting to hear the _thunk_ which meant that it was locked into its groove. "Done!" the command car driver bawled.

Alex and Sam let go of the tank at the same time, letting the dragon fall back upon its new treads. Alex dove under the tank and retrieved his sniper rifle, clipping it to his back. He then tended to Irons while Sam pulled Leopold out.

Irons had been hit in the lower left leg. He had been lucky to a degree; there were two bullet wounds, which meant that the round had gone right through and wasn't lodged in there somewhere. Alex patted Irons down and found his morphine syrette. He actually found _four_ morphine shots, but he only used one, sticking the tank commander in the thigh.

Irons's colorful language calmed down into a mixture of pained grunts and mutterings as the pain-suppressant took root in his system. "Better…" the tank commander grunted. "Don't give me any more; I can't run this thing-" he gestured to the dragon above him- "if I'm too doped up to know which way is up."

"Why do you have multiple syrettes?" Alex asked as he tossed away the now-spent morphine shot, helping the tank commander out from under the dragon, ducking as another clatter of weaponsfire ground into the side armor of the dragon. "I thought standard issue was one syrette per soldier."

"Well, yes, it is," Irons gave a slight nod, pulling himself out from under the tank, Alex right behind him, "Me and others like me get extra," the tank commander explained, "Infantrymen usually stop a bullet or catch shrapnel on the battlefield; they take a syrette of morphine and they're set until they get to an aid station. Tank crewmen…bullets and shrapnel aren't much of a problem for us, but when we get wounded, we get _wounded_. Burns, dismemberment, you name it…when _we_ get hit, it usually takes more than one morphine shot to tuck away the pain…and that's only when we survive getting hit, which isn't too often."

Alex gave a nod, seeing the sense in that. "Sorry if this hurts," the blue-eyed Spartan apologized as he picked the tank command up by his armpits.

Private Leopold and Sam had both climbed up on top of the dragon. Leopold popped the hatch and dropped down inside of the tank.

"Sam, help me with the sergeant!" Alex hollered up to his wife.

Sam got back over to the edge of the dragon's top and leaned down, grasping the tank commander under his arms as well, taking him from Alex and heaving him up onto the top of the tank. That prompted a smattering of expletives from the tank commander.

Irons apologized right after. "Not your fault, I know, but _damn!_"

Alex leapt up on top of the tank as well. He drew his magnum sidearm and loosed off several shots at the Insurrectionist soldiers peppering the side of the dragon with weaponsfire. The turret of the warthog opened up right after, sending a significantly larger amount of lead shooting at and over the tank. Alex and Sam's energy shields were constantly flaring up as they deflected the heavy rounds.

Sam lowered the sergeant down through the hatch immediately; the tank commander only needed a single hit from the warthog turret to become an instant cadaver.

Alex waited for Sam to climb down the hatch before leaping down as well. His energy shields, worn down by the constant fire from the warthog, failed as he reached the hatch. A bullet struck him in the shoulder as he leaped down through the hatch, putting a small dent into his armor.

Alex landed on the floor of the tank's interior, reaching up and shutting the cupola hatch. He stepped off of the commander's seat and helped Master Sergeant Irons into it.

The tank commander rubbed the arm-wrests of his chair, getting the old feeling back. He peered through the periscopes which allowed him to see what was happening outside of the dragon without physically looking out through the hatch, giving a satisfied nod when he could see clearly.

"Alright," the tank commander rasped, "I have jobs for all of you, and if you care about getting to the Black Hills in one piece you'll do them exactly right and _exactly_ as I tell you. While you are in this machine, I am God, Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, and Zeus all rolled into one. My word is law. When I give you an order, you will follow that order without question or complaint. If you hesitate, you will cost yourself not only your own life, but the lives of the rest of us. We are all part of this tank, now, and I am its brain. You all are Flood forms, and I am your Gravemind. Follow my orders, do as I say, and we may get out of this yet. Nerves, you're a driver; get into the driver's seat. The controls are similar to any vehicle's; you'll pick 'em up fast."

"If you say so, boss," Private Leopold took a seat in the driver's seat, which was situated in the front of the interior of the tank and to the left. A leopard-print seat cover was fastened over the seat and a large pair of dice—which people usually hung from the rear-view mirrors of cars—were draped over a screw in the wall right over the driver's viewport. Whoever the previous driver had been, he had certainly made the place his own.

"You Spartans will be operating the main cannon," Irons said next, turning to Sam and Alex. "Which one of you is the sniper?"

"Me," Alex replied.

"You will serve as the gunner. You will be the one to move and aim the main cannon. There is also a coaxial machinegun mounted on the main cannon which you can fire as an alternate weapon when you aren't firing shells. You will acquire the targets I call out, identify them, and then you will fire when I give the command; not a millisecond before or after. Understood?"

Alex gave a simple nod.

Irons next turned to Sam. "You will serve as his loader. When he requests a reload, he will call out the type of ammunition he needs. The second he does that, your job is to get a round of the appropriate type of ammunition and load it into the breech. The ammunition is stowed right next to the main cannon emplacement-" Irons gestured to the tank shells stacked against the wall off to the side- "Red-tipped shells are high-explosive, or 'HE'; they are geared towards destroying machinegun emplacements or obstacles. Blue-tipped means armor-piercing, or 'AP'; which is for enemy vehicles and armor. Finally, silver-tipped means canister, which is for taking down groups of infantry. Basically, the main cannon firing canister shot is pretty much God's shotgun, which is what us grease-monkeys call it. Can you remember that?"

"Yes," Sam's reply was; short, simple, and straight to the point. "What are the yellow-tipped ones?" she asked next, curious about the fourth color of ammunition she saw which Irons had not talked about.

"Nerve gas, but we won't be using that. Alright, any questions? Make 'em quick!" When no one spoke up, the tank commander gave a nod and said, "Good. Take your stations!"

Leopold, already in the driver's seat, fired up the dragon's engine as Sam and Alex manned the main cannon.

"Now, we do not have anyone to man the bow machinegun, so Alex; your coaxial machinegun will be our main anti-personnel defense weapon," Irons explained, "You'll have to be the one to take out the die-hards who will try charging us. Now then…Nerves, you have the wheel? Good; keep to this road for now and head north. I want to try to keep north here at least until we get past downtown Côte d'Azur; I really do not want to try to smash through that place."

Leopold quickly figured out the controls for moving the tank and got the dragon heading north in only a few seconds.

Irons kept a steady and unwavering eye out through the periscopes, on the lookout for anything unfriendly.

The weaponsfire from the Insurrectionist soldiers fell behind, fading into the distance.

Alex waited by the gun emplacement, counting the seconds as they slid by.

The warehouses and docks of the eastern reaches of Côte d'Azur passed by as the dragon rumbled up the street. It wasn't until five minutes later that the dragon began to encounter resistance. The soldier back at the wreckage site must have alerted their command to the presence of a hostile tank.

Leopold pushed the engine as far as it could go, sending the dragon forward at close to fifty miles per hour. On rugged terrain or open country, the dragon's top speed wouldn't have been able to comfortably exceed forty to forty-five miles per hour, but the tank could move much faster on paved roads.

"Alex, sink a few rounds from your machine gun into the bastards," Irons ordered the blue-eyed Spartan, peering at the squad of Insurrectionist soldiers which had opened fire with heavy machineguns from behind a line of wrecked cars.

Alex swiveled the dragon's turret tower around, taking aim with the main cannon and opening fire with the coaxial machinegun. The heavy rounds slammed into the still-smoldering wreckages, forcing the Insurrectionists' heads down.

"Don't pay too much attention to normal infantry," Irons advised, "What you need to keep an eye out for are rocket teams and enemy vehicles. We don't have time to go after every infantry squad we run into. Leave these guys alone when we pass them."

The tank commander kept on looking through his periscopes. Suddenly, he spotted movement, nearly invisible in the rain, but not enough to evade the tank commander's sharp eyes. "Front!" Irons called out. "One o' clock, next to the red warehouse!"

Alex peered through the gunsights and ended up spotting the same thing the tank commander had; an Insurrectionist tank, tucked away in a corner. "Identified," Alex replied, before saying to his wife, "Armor-piercing."

Sam selected a blue-tipped AP round and slid it into the breech, giving Alex a tap to signal that she was done.

"Fire!" Irons exclaimed.

Alex complied, pulling the triggers. The main cannon roared, firing off the AP round. The shell slammed into the Insurrectionist tank just as its turret had acquired the dragon in its sights, brewing up in an oily fireball which was quickly beaten down by the rain.

The dragon continued north, brushing past the rest of the Insurrectionist infantry. Alex opened fire at them with the coaxial machinegun, cutting down a group of three or four soldiers before the rest took the hint and dove for cover. By the time they popped their heads back up, the dragon was already fading into the misty rain.

"Front!" Irons called out again, spotting another tank in his periscopes. "Twelve o'clock, dead ahead!"

"Identified," Alex's response was, placing the gunsights right over the hostile armor. "Armor-piercing."

Sam slammed another AP round into the breech.

"Fire!"

Alex pulled the triggers and watched the enemy tank brew up. "Target destroyed," he concluded.

That was how it went for the next fifteen minutes, pushing north through the docks and taking out groups of infantry and the slower enemy tanks. Irons, Alex, and Sam repeated their ritual time and time again until the routine was finally broken by a faint whining, rushing sound.

Alex's ears perked up, sensing the whining sound. "Those sound like-"

"-Reb fightercraft, _shit!_" Irons shouted. "Nerves! Take a hard right, get going down that alleyway!"

"That alley's awfully narrow, sir!" Leopold shouted back.

"Exactly!"

Leopold did not question the order. He obeyed, turning the dragon to the right and temporarily exposing its weaker side armor to whatever lay further down the street. Nothing hit them as they slid into the alleyway and continued on towards the next street over.

The whine intensified and became a louder, deeper rushing noise. The noise grew nearer and nearer and reached a climax as it passed right over before fading into the distance. The missiles and ordinance from the air strike reduced the buildings on either side of the dragon to rubble, but none of them dropped directly into the alleyway, sparing the tank from immediate destruction.

The dragon was able to push through the debris for a time, but soon the debris became too densely packed, so the dragon simply rolled right over it, coming out on the other side right into a group of three Insurrectionist tanks.

One of the tanks opened fire, grazing the rear of the dragon.

"Flank speed! Flank speed!" Irons screamed at Leopold, who slammed down on the power pedals, sending the dragon lurching forward.

Alex called for another AP round and, once Sam loaded it in, took aim at the nearest tank which hadn't fired and pulled the triggers, sending that tank on a one-way trip to oblivion.

A second tank opened fire, but the dragon was moving fast enough that the enemy gunner miscalculated and ended up shooting through the space which the dragon had been occupying a split-second prior.

"Take the first one out!" Irons ordered, "It's done reloading by now!"

"Armor-piercing, hurry!" Alex didn't bother replying to the tank commander, instead hollering over to his wife, who complied, slamming yet another AP round into the breach.

An Insurrectionist heavy machinegun opened fire somewhere up front, its bullets clattering off of the dragon's frontal armor.

Alex fired the main cannon, destroying the Insurrectionist which had opened fire first. The empty shell casing clanged out onto the floor and Sam was already slamming in another round of AP. Alex fired one last time, finishing off the final tank.

"Targets eliminated," the blue-eyed Spartan reported, peering at the burning wreckages through the gunsights.

Master Sergeant Irons watched the two Spartans manning the main cannon with something bordering fascination. He had served with many other men who had been very good at what they did, but these two Spartans took firing the main cannon to a new level; they could do it faster and much more efficiently than a normal gun crew would ever have been able to do.

It was like getting a premium software update for his tank's gun. With his normal crew—Irons respected all of those men and had every faith in them—Irons would never had been able to take out those three tanks in quick succession like the Spartans had been able to do without losing his own tank in the process.

Irons pushed those thoughts to a corner of his mind and focused on the matters at hand. He peered through the periscopes and spotted the bright muzzle flashes of the heavy machinegun emplacement firing at the front of the tank. "Front!" he hummed out, "Eleven o' clock!"

Alex swung the turret tower over to the left and acquired his next target, centering the gunsights on the clattering heavy machinegun, wondering what the gunners were hoping to prove by peppering the tank like they were. "Identified!" the blue-eyed Spartan exclaimed. "High-explosive!"

"Mixing it up, I see," Sam chuckled, sliding a red-tipped HE shell into the breech.

"Fire!" Irons barked.

Alex pulled the triggers and the main cannon rocked again. A large explosion tore through the ruined vehicles and brick wall covering the gun emplacement, kicking up a large cloud of dust which was quickly wiped away by the rain, but the gun kept right on firing.

"Give me another one," Alex said to Sam. The red-haired Spartan reloaded the main cannon with another round of HE.

The main cannon fired again. There was a second explosion, then silence. The enemy machinegun was gone.

"Target destroyed," Alex reported. "Stubborn bastard..."

The dragon moved onwards, pushing north whenever and wherever it could, cutting east when it faced staunch resistance ahead.

The Insurrectionists tried to wipe them out from the air four more times, each time met with as much success as the first attempt. During the last two incidents, they ended up hurting their own men and materiél instead of Irons's tank.

"How are things holding up, Nerves?" Irons hollered over to the driver.

"I think I've gotten the hang of this pretty well, sir," Leopold replied, "Long as you keep the Rebs from blowing the shit out of the tank's front, I'll be fine."

Almost on cue, there was a loud explosion right in front of the dragon as it continued to rumble down the residential street which it was on.

"Rocket team!" Irons warned, searching for them through the periscopes. "Nerves, keep the pedal to the metal; we're harder to hit if we're moving fast!"

Another rocket slammed into the front of the tank, rocking the whole of the interior. The frontal armor was the strongest part of the dragon, however; it was able to deflect the rocket without too much difficulty. Had the rocket hit the side or rear armor it would have been a different story.

"Side, two o' clock!" Irons barked suddenly, spotting movement in the place where he thought the rockets to have come from, "Second-story window on the far left!"

"High-explosive," Alex said to his wife.

"Coming right up," Sam slammed a red-tipped round of HE into the breech, giving her husband a quick tap.

"Fire!"

Alex pulled the triggers. The main cannon vented its fury on the window where the rocket team had fired out its last two shots. The window and the walls around it disintegrated in the blast, blowing a large hole in the unlucky house of which they were a part.

"Canister!" Alex called out.

Sam slid a silver-tipped shell into the breech.

Alex focused in on the hole with his gunsights, patiently waiting. Sure enough, the rocket team—which had wisely taken cover after unloading its ordinance—appeared back in the opening, about to fire again. Alex was waiting for them. He squeezed the triggers.

The canister shot sprayed into the hole in the house. Alex had seen what shotgun blasts did to people at closer range; it wasn't pretty. Watching what the canister shot did to the two or three Insurrectionist soldiers in the rocket team was at least ten times worse. "Targets now in pieces all over the floor and walls…" Alex muttered.

The dragon kept right on pushing through the heart of Côte d'Azur. On the way, Irons's dragon ran into many more Insurrectionist tanks, but—with Spartans manning the main cannon—had managed to fight off every single one without any impossible snags.

The dragon met a new adversary as it began to push through the industrial sector near the northern outskirts; warthogs with Gauss cannons.

The tank rocked as it was hit by the powerful mini-MAC cannon projectiles. The armor began to weaken and buckle as it took on this new threat; the dragon would not be able to take this punishment for very long.

"Armor-piercing!" Alex snapped, waiting for his wife to load up the cannon. He sighted the first Gauss warthog and squeezed the triggers. The warthog was blown twenty feet into the air, fire bursting from the hole which the AP round had torn into its chassis.

Two more rounds of AP finished off the other two Gauss warthogs. The dragon had taken damage to its right side and its frontal armor was starting to weaken. The left-side tread had taken a light hit, but was still functioning normally for the time being.

Insurrectionist resistance increased as the dragon advanced towards their front lines north of the city.

The northern outskirts of Côte d'Azur were not quite as bad as the residential districts had been; they were more open with less places to hide a tank or a rocket team.

Several more groups of warthogs—some of them Gauss models, the rest customary ones with M41 LAAGs—also attacked the dragon, but Alex was able to drive them off with high-explosive rounds and the coaxial machinegun.

Heavy machineguns would erupt to life in every other house, but HE rounds silenced them for good. Every once in a while, Master Sergeant Irons would sneak a glance behind the tank and survey the trail of destruction they were leaving. He found that he was truly surprised; he had not really expected to come this far.

As they moved forward, the pain of his bullet wounds began to trouble him once more; his morphine was wearing off. However, he dared not take another syrette of the narcotic; he would not be able to command the dragon if his mind was wandering around in its own little dreamworld. He continued to ignore the pain, calling out targets and keeping the tank running.

Finally, the dragon emerged from the northern outskirts of Côte d'Azur into the grassy fields between the city and the Black Hills.

The COM unit began to crackle, picking up snippets and fragments of chatter between UNSC troops. They were getting close.

The dragon kept on advancing north until the trenches and foxholes and fortifications of the Insurrectionists' front lines came into view. They were only lightly manned, without armor supporting them. The bulk of the forces stationed there must be further up ahead, closer to the UNSC lines.

"Looks like we got here right in the middle of a night assault," Irons observed, "Couldn't have asked for a better time! Keep her moving, Nerves!"

"At least we're safe from artillery for now; they wouldn't shell their own lines," Sam reasoned.

Almost on cue, the whistling, rushing sounder of the higher-pitched Insurrectionist artillery filled the air, growing louder and louder until it reached a climax and slammed into the ground in front of the advancing dragon. The sudden force of the explosions was enough to send Alex and Sam sprawling.

"Well, I've been wrong before…" Sam muttered.

Alex clambered back up to his feet, gingerly massaging his now-sore shoulder. He helped Sam back up and hurried back to his station at the controls of the main cannon, just in time for Irons to call out a target.

"Front! Anti-armor emplacements at ten o'clock!"

Alex swiveled the turret of the M1-Delta over to the left, peering through the gunsights and spotting Irons's target. Sure enough, there was a concentration of anti-tank cannons set in a depression behind the line of trenches, ready for use in the event of a possible UNSC counterattack. Now, their crews were frantically trying to spin them around to face Irons's dragon.

Several high-explosive shells put them out of commission permanently; the anti-tank guns, _and_ their former crews.

As Irons's dragon slid by the burning wrecks of the anti-tank guns, pretty much every Insurrectionist still manning their lines finally took notice of the hostile machine of death stabbing them right through their back. A blizzard of weaponsfire converged on the tank, but everything clanked harmlessly off of the armor.

"You'd think they would learn by now that shooting us just wastes ammo…" Leopold grumbled, manipulating the driving controls of the tank to turn it to the side so as to avoid driving right into an artillery shell pit.

"Yeah, you'd think…" Irons agreed. He shrugged as he watched the hapless Insurrectionists through his periscopes. "Until I get this bucket of bolts a new paint job, they can keep right on shooting for all I care-" the tank commander broke off as he spotted something off to the side. "Rocket teams at three o'clock!" the master sergeant barked.

Alex swiveled the turret back over to the right and found Irons's intended. Two three-man rocket teams were sprinting towards the nearest foxholes, rocket launchers armed and ready to fire.

"Identified!" Alex sang out. "Canister!"

"Give 'em Hell," Sam slammed the requested round into the breech, giving her husband the 'ready' pat on his shoulder.

Alex pulled the triggers and watched as God's shotgun tore through the rocket team. Two of them caught the blast head-on and were ripped apart and another two caught the fringes. Alex opened fire with the coaxial machinegun and cut those two down, along with a third, unharmed Magisterial Guardsman. The last Insurrectionist was able to scramble away before he met the same fate. Alex squeezed off a burst at the one remaining rocket launcher and destroyed it, preventing anyone from picking it up and hitting the dragon from behind.

It took two more minutes to navigate through the maze of trenches and fortifications which formed the Insurrectionist lines. From what Alex could see from his limited view of the universe through the gunsights, he considered himself and the others very lucky that the section of the Insurrectionist lines which they had chanced upon was currently out north attacking the UNSC lines in the Black Hills. Had they been fully armed and manned, the Spartan honestly didn't think they would have gotten this far.

Hell, everyone in the renegade tank was surprised they had gotten this far at all. If a person had been told to cast bets on the survival of a group of people in a tank who had to fight their way through a heavily occupied city and enemy lines whilst battling enemy tanks, dodging artillery, and evading air strikes…well, any sane person would have bet against their survival.

On the other hand, the whole concept of what Sam, Alex, Irons, and Leopold were doing was anything but sane. At times, in this kind of war, survival needs a good dose of insanity to go with the logical and the reasonable. Irons's crew was taking that to the extreme.

There was an explosion off to the left as the dragon rumbled away from the Insurrectionist lines and into the fields to the north. Dirt and earth showered all over the dragon and a smoking crater appeared in the ground where the shell had hit.

"Orders?" Alex asked as more explosions erupted all around the tank, making the ground shake like the San Andreas Fault on Earth.

"Those are long-range artillery rounds," Irons observed, listening closely to the whistle of the artillery as it arced through the sky. "Nothing we can do about it except keep right on moving."

It took twenty minutes to reach the Black Hills. The expanse of high, rugged hills and small mountains lay north of Côte d'Azur across a large expanse of fields and meadows, through which Irons's dragon encountered little resistance. The fighting didn't pick up again until the dragon neared Mount Araquiel, the small mountain which was set a small distance behind the first few kilometers of foothills which made up the southern reaches of the Black Hills.

The First Expeditionary Force had lines all throughout the taller hills behind the first few kilometers of foothills and bumps. Mount Araquiel formed the keystone of the UNSC lines in the southern Black Hills and those in the east. The Insurrectionists seemed to have attempted a surprise attack under cover of night to drive the marines off of that mountain, but that obviously seemed to have failed.

Irons checked his watch. 0514 Hours; quarter after five in the morning. The horizon in the east lightened a miniscule bit, but because of the thick, dark rain clouds which were still pouring out their essence upon the west coast of the Alsace landmass, the rising of the sun really didn't do anything to brighten the night.

It didn't really matter though; the Insurrectionist assault force—which appeared to be division-sized—had come equipped with bright lights to guide their attack. The UNSC lines on Mount Araquiel had similar lights, shining them upon the attacking Insurrectionist soldiers so that the marines could see what they were shooting at.

"Front!" Irons called out. "Hostile armor at one o'clock, behind the hedges!"

"Identified!" Alex replied, turning the turret over to the correct direction, fixing the Insurrectionist tank in his sights. The enemy tank was clearly a straggler; Alex could see flashes from the barrels of more enemy tanks further up towards Mount Araquiel. "Armor piercing!"

Sam pushed the blue-tipped AP round into the breech. "Loaded!"

"Fire!" Irons ordered.

Alex pulled the triggers and watched the fruits of his aiming take root. The AP round tore right into the Insurrectionist tank's rear armor. The enemy tank's command turret was blown at least ten feet into the air, propelled by a great cloud of fire and smoke as it brewed up. No way in hell the tank's crew survived that.

As the dragon climbed the first foothills of the Black Hills, it encountered impromptu artillery, mortar, and anti-armor emplacements, hastily set up to support the infantry and tanks now assaulting the UNSC lines on and around Mount Araquiel. Several rounds of high-explosive put an end to the ones which Irons's dragon ran into.

Alex kept up a steady stream of fire with the coaxial machinegun on the advancing infantry which the dragon came up behind. Irons called out the locations of more tanks and rocket teams and Alex took them out quickly, taking most of them by surprise.

Time slid by once more as the crew of Irons's dragon 'settled' back into the repetitive ritual of destroying tank after tank, killing rocket team after rocket team, firing shell after shell after shell. Leopold was the only one who was immune to that sense of time distortion; as the driver, he constantly had to avoid the many obstacles which were springing up in front of him every second.

Master Sergeant Irons lost track of how many times he peered through his periscopes and called for the destruction of an Insurrectionist tank or the death of another group of soldiers. He could hear the sound of his own voice interspersed with Alex's as the blue-eyed Spartan responded to his commands and acted upon them.

At one point, Irons became aware of a strange lack of Insurrectionist armor or personnel in front of his dragon. Frowning, he popped open the hatch above his head and stood up painfully, sticking his head and shoulders out of the cupola of the dragon. He brought his field glasses to his eyes, making sure they were set for night vision.

The pattering of the rain against his helmet filled his head with a constant _tap tap tap_. Irons took a deep breath of fresh air and scanned the area in front of his advancing dragon. His confusion was compounded; the periscopes were functioning perfectly; there were no Insurrectionists in front of his tank any longer.

A loud rushing noise filled the air, followed up by an explosion off to the right. Irons ducked back down into the interior of his tank, shutting the hatch over his head. He cocked his head and listened, noticing something else. Several more explosions rocked the tank, but that was not his concern; he was listening to the noises they made as they shot through the air. They were definitely from anti-tank emplacements, but the pitch was different; it was lower, faster than Insurrectionist anti-tank shells.

"Those are UNSC guns firing at us!" Sam exclaimed suddenly, recognizing the irregularity of the sound as well.

"All they see is a tank coming towards them from the Insurrectionist lines; they must think we're one of them," Alex reasoned.

"Sir, what should I do?!" Leopold cried from the driver's seat as another barrage of explosions rocked the tank, throwing dirt and debris all over the place. The command car driver was wrestling with the controls of the dragon to keep it moving forward. "We're going to be in range of our own rockets soon! I _really_ don't want to-"

"Keep us steady, Nerves!" Irons interrupted the startled driver.

"Could we contact our lines with our COM systems?" Alex suggested.

Irons shook his head. "No, we'd be memories before word got to our gunners that we aren't Rebs."

The tank commander fell silent for a second, quickly thinking up a possible solution to his new problem. He twisted around in his chair, addressing the two Spartans at the main cannon controls behind his station. "Sam! Next to the ammo stockpile, there's a strongbox with small-arms ammunition and flares!" the tank commander said quickly, "Open the box and toss me two of the green flares! Hurry! Make sure they're green!"

Sam moved fast, wasting no time in hurrying over to the indicated compartment in the corner of the tank. She opened it and rummaged through the magazines and cartridges inside until she found a medium-sized, dynamite-shaped cylinder. She checked the tip of the stick, but it was red. She threw it away, digging deeper until she found another, similar cylinder with a green tip. She dug out another green-tipped cylinder and tossed the pair over to Irons, who caught them with both hands.

Irons pushed open the hatch once more and thrust his head and shoulder out of the cupola of the dragon. Insurrectionist weaponsfire clattered off of the rear of the dragon. That worried Irons. Not the weaponsfire, but the fact that the rear of his tank was exposed to the Insurrectionists. All it would take was one lucky AP shot from a tank or anti-armor gun or rocket launcher, and that would be the end. Done, finished, _finito_.

Irons pushed those thoughts from his mind. He struck the flares and lit them. He held one flare in each hand and thrust them up into the air. The burning green beacons cut through the darkness and the rain. The Insurrectionists would be able to see them, but the important thing was that the UNSC could see them as well.

Irons waved the flares through the air, keeping balance as his tank climbed up the slopes of Mount Araquiel towards the UNSC trenches, which were only visible because of the lights which shone from them. Flashes of weaponsfire were also visible all up and down the UNSC lines as the Insurrectionists well over to the right and left crashed into them, trying to break them.

However, Irons's dragon's unexpected thrust through the rear of the Insurrectionist assault had pretty much destroyed most of the organization of the assault. His armored push, aided by the darkness, the rain, and by the element of surprise, had pretty much sliced the Insurrectionist assault in half.

Irons held the two burning green flares in the air and signaled with them, moving them in a fixed series of positions, similar to how ancient naval officers—back when naval warfare was centered around the oceans and not space—would communicate with flag signals.

Irons kept at it as long as he could, repeating the same motions with the flares over and over again until a clattering of weaponsfire from behind forced him back down into the tank. He cast the flares away and shut the hatch over his head, resting back into his chair.

"You've done it!" Leopold exclaimed, listening to the chatter over the COM. "They saw your signal, whatever it was, and are redirecting their fire! They're confused as hell, but they know we're one of theirs!"

Emphasizing the command car driver's conclusions, the explosions buffeting the dragon gradually ceased.

Irons shakily stood back up, riding with his head and shoulder out of the cupola as his dragon arrived at the UNSC lines. The marines manning the lines all offered him respectful salutes and nods as his tank rumbled past. He could see respect, awe, and admiration in the faces of all of those marines. Apt, considering that his surprise attack on the rear of the Insurrectionist assault had spared them all a hell of a lot of trouble.

Irons's whole escapade would be the source of gossip and conversation for weeks once word got out. Surviving the retreat out of Côte d'Azur after getting shot, getting his tank up and running against all odds, breaking through and out of the Insurrectionist lines, reaching the Black Hills, and _surviving_ all that… All in a day's work. Irons's mouth curved in a bitter smile at that. He would have one hell of a story to tell to his old crew when he got them back. Hell, when his daughter had kids, he would probably tell that one when he was a grandfather.

Leopold maneuvered the dragon through the lines and pulled the tank to a halt when it reached what appeared to be a regimental HQ. He killed the engines.

Irons breathed a sigh of relief, releasing the breath he had been holding ever since the beginning of his tank's odyssey several hours ago, back in the docks of Côte d'Azur. He looked each and every one of the others in his tank in the eye and said, "It's been an honor, boys and girls. If any one of you end up in the Tank Corps, you're welcome in my dragon any day."

Alex allowed himself a small grin. He would even save his dark, vengeful feelings towards the airheads in the Seventh Fleet who had decided to drop him and his wife right into the Lion's Den for later; they could wait. Right now, he was just grateful to be in one piece.

"Well, Ace," Sam came up next to her husband, heading towards the hatch. "Looks like we're home."

Alex gave a quiet nod. He waited for Sam to help Irons up and out of the hatch. After she climbed through, he followed her, standing up on top of the dragon and stretching, embracing the rain.

Several figures emerged from the regimental HQ nearby, heading right for the tank. Alex acknowledged them with an informal wave, hopping off of the tank and moving up with his wife to meet them. _Here we go again_…


	56. Chapter 55: Old Habits

Chapter Fifty-Five: Old Habits

**0600 hours, November 22, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC Secondary ODG Control Facility "**_**The Spire**_**", Black Hills**

"Sir!" Alex and Sam Ambrose both snapped to attention, bringing their hands up to their visors in a crisp salute as a man with a jet-black full beard and equally black hair, wearing a general's uniform adorned with four stars on his shoulder straps, emerged from the inner control room which housed the controls for the orbital defense grid, moving over to approach the two Spartans.

"At ease," the middle-aged man in the general's uniform returned the salute, allowing the two Spartans to drop their arms.

Alex glanced through his heads-up display at the older man's IFF transponder and identified him as General Ian McCandlish, the commanding officer of the entire First Expeditionary Force, though his distinct north-English, almost Scottish accent, and the quadruple stars on his cap and shoulder straps already gave his identity away.

General McCandlish gave the two Spartans in front of him a quick once-over, his eyebrows sliding up to the top of his forehead, nearly vanishing under his cap. "I think…" the general rubbed his chin, searching for the right words. "I think…you have some explaining to do…" Though McCandlish hid his emotions well, it was obvious that Sam and Alex's presence had come across as quite a surprise. "Please step into my personal quarters just over there on the other side of this room; I'll join you in a minute."

Alex caught sight of McCandlish moving over to direct a team of COM coordinators, who were currently receiving incoming transmissions from the front lines, as he and Sam made their way through the outer operations room and into a small, closet-sized crash pad off to the side.

The staff of the central command center parted like the Red Sea as the two Spartan-IIIs made their way into General McCandlish's personal quarters set at the other end of the room. The men and women there all gave Sam and Alex those expressions and looks of awe and fear that almost every soldier gave to a Spartan on his first time seeing one.

Alex personally hated how the common rank and file was automatically uneasy around Spartans; it was just like the Great War all over again.

_No_, Alex shook his head, correcting that thought. The Great War had been worse; the Spartans had all been young teenagers at the time. Take the common soldier's unease around Spartans and then add in the fact that they were constantly surprised at how the UNSC's best and brightest had only been children…it got old after a while.

Alex exchanged a few respectful nods with the soldiers who had already been through the mill; they were the ones who had no problems.

Sam reached the General's crash pad and pulled open the door, ducking inside. Alex followed her, letting the door swing closed behind him. He took one quick look around. The room was very small; McCandlish probably got in his ninety-minute power naps whenever he could, but that wasn't very often, not when his forces were constantly under attack, requiring his equally constant attention. The cot, sure enough, did not look as if it had been slept in for some time.

Other than the cot, there was a tiny nightstand, a small, foldable table and several chairs situated around the table. A footlocker sat at the edge of the cot as well. There was no more room in the small space for anything else.

Alex took one look at the chairs and decided to remain standing; in his MJOLNIR he would probably end up flattening the small, fold-up seats. Instead, he sat down on the ground cross-legged and closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths and centering himself.

Sam leaned against the wall next to the door, tapping her foot impatiently. It was a solid two minutes of waiting before the door was pushed open and General McCandlish strode in.

The General walked right to the table and dropped down into one of the chairs. He reached down below and drew out a small plastic cup and a bottle of sixteen-year-old scotch, pouring himself a couple of fingers. "You are Alexander-G004 and Samantha-G113, Spartans from the Gamma Company generation of the Spartan-III project, Petty Officers First Class in the Naval Special Warfare combat branch; all of this according to Colonel Westfield, the commander of the regiment whose lines you stumbled upon. Is this correct?"

Alex and Sam replied with simple nods.

McCandlish brought his cup to his lips and took a small sip of the scotch before settling back and addressing his new arrivals once more. "The Rebs have been hammering this mountain nonstop for days, now," the general began, "Now—bear with me, here—the Rebs start hitting Mount Araquiel again not too long ago with nearly everything but the kitchen sink; I'm talking infantry, armor, even limited air support. I'm giving myself an ulcer here in the operations rooms trying to keep the line there together while juggling the raids against General Dalyell's division's lines down to the south. Next thing I know, a runner from General Armistead arrives and tells me that a dragon is tearing the Rebs a new asshole, coming up the slopes of Mount Araquiel from behind. Naturally, I was dubious, but after a little while I freed myself up enough to take a quick look for myself…and I find a shattered Insurrectionist advance, a dragon on my front doorstep, and two Spartans." The general knocked back his scotch and stowed the bottle and cup. He relaxed and turned his gaze over to the Spartans, staring into their blank, emotionless faceplates. "I'm listening," was all he said next.

Sam spoke first, beating her husband to the punch. "Sir, we—my comrade and I—arrived in-system four days ago. We were intercepted and taken in by the Seventh Fleet. They've been driven back to Elpis and ended up losing all contact with your men on the ground…"

General McCandlish leaned forward and cocked an eyebrow, listening intently.

"Arrangements were made to have us orbitally inserted right in with your lines," Alex continued, "This was done last night. We were dropped right into one of the residential districts in southern Côte d'Azur, only to find the area crawling with hostiles without any marines in sight."

Together, Sam and Alex quickly explained to McCandlish how they had run into Private Leopold and Master Sergeant Irons. McCandlish's other eyebrow slid up to join its counterpart when he listened to Alex tell of their odyssey through Côte d'Azur in Master Sergeant Irons's dragon.

McCandlish nodded a few times, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Probably the most interesting debrief I've heard since Installation 00… When this Master Sergeant Harry Irons gets off the shelf in the aid stations, I'll have to have a word with his commanders; he seems perfectly capable of leading a larger unit…" the general shook his head and cleared his thoughts, turning back to the two Spartans. "As for you two…" the general's frown deepened as he spoke, faint memories tugging at his mind. "I _remember_ you two…"

"Sir?" Alex asked, confusion evident in his voice.

McCandlish was silent for a few seconds, trying to remember until the light bulb went off over his head. He snapped his fingers suddenly, memories from years past flashing through his mind. "New Mombasa. I remember you; you both fought alongside my men in New Mombasa. You're the sniper from that battle, and probably the so-called 'Ghost' from Kiev as well," McCandlish said to Alex.

Alex allowed himself a wry grin. True, he had acquired a near-legendary status as a sniper during the Battle of Kiev—soldiers had referred to him simply as the 'Ghost'. While he had not been anything close to arrogant or headstrong in those days—hell, he had been the _quiet_ one in his team—he secretly _did_ like and enjoy that moniker. "You have a good memory, sir," Alex replied. He now remembered McCandlish as well. Back at the end of the Great War, McCandlish had been a fiery-tempered captain, a company commander in the 77th Marine Regiment, one of the two marine regiments left in New Mombasa which eventually fought on Installation 00. Alex and Sam both recognized a good part of his former personality infused in the General.

McCandlish waved his hand, returning to the matter at hand. "Enough of this; let's get down to brass tacks. I am going to-"

As the general spoke, there was a sudden, harried series of knocks on the door. "Sir?!" a voice called out. "Sir, Mount Araquiel's under attack again!"

McCandlish swore under his breath. "Follow me," he said to the two Spartans, getting to his feet and striding out of the room. He made his way through the outer operations room and over to one of the holo-tables. This table was showing the southeastern portions of the Black Hills line.

Alex craned his neck and studied the line. McCandlish had deployed 3rd Division to that section of the line. It was not a straight, solid line stretching all through the Black Hills; instead, the line was concentrated on small mountains and tall hills, easily defensible locations which covered each other. The gaps left by this arrangement were well-covered. If anything had tried to push through those gaps and valleys, they would have been slaughtered by the marines stationed on the heights. Behind those front-line concentrations on the hills, more proper fortifications and lines were dug in to provide a fallback point and a secondary defense. Mount Araquiel was situated in the very front of the line. It was the largest mountain in the area and was situated right in the center of the line. If it fell, the lines would be seriously breached.

Blue lines representing the lines and fortifications of the First Expeditionary Force were present all over Mount Araquiel, as well as the hills to both sides of the mountain. Blue dots representing UNSC units also covered these emplacements.

Red dots were arrayed southeast of Mount Araquiel. These represented the Insurrectionist forces which had been steadily attacking the southeastern lines for the past several days. They had been stubbornly trying to knock Mount Araquiel flat ever since McCandlish had established the UNSC line in the Black Hills after the fall of Côte d'Azur. So far, they had been unsuccessful, and McCandlish intended to keep it that way.

Currently, the red dots were forming up and were steadily advancing back up towards the UNSC lines further up the slopes of the mountain.

McCandlish's adjutant, a bald, older man whose IFF identified him as Colonel Geoffrey Bates, was already present at the table. "This intel is coming in from aerial recon from the 174th Fighter Group, attached to Colonel Dominique's air wing."

"You are certain?" McCandlish asked, "I do not want another intel cock-up like the one which nearly cost us Côte d'Azur on the very first day."

"115-percent certain, sir," Bates replied confidently. "COM transmissions are beginning to trickle in from 3rd Division as well; they're definitely about to get hit again."

"Numbers?" the general asked next.

"Unclear, sir," Bates replied. He turned his attention closer to the table and gestured to the formations of red moving up through the hills towards Mount Araquiel. "Division-sized, by the looks of it. There are also several smaller attacks taking place at grid squares Gold-38 and Gold-282."

"Those are the high-points situated adjacent to Mount Araquiel," McCandlish observed.

"Affirmative, sir. They're trying to flank the mountain by taking down or at the very least distracting the defenses on either side of it. I would advise sending in elements of the 88th Regiment to reinforce the lines on the mountain, sir."

"No," McCandlish shook his head, "If I do that, then the defenses all along the Moray Steppes will be stretched to the breaking point. No…what about 2nd Division—what is the 112th Regiment-"

"The 112th is currently under intense artillery bombardment. They're not going anywhere."

"Damn it all…"

"Sir?" Sam spoke up, interrupting the conversation between general and adjutant. "Sir, send _us_ in."

McCandlish briefly considered, weighing the pros and cons. "What's the status on the rest of our assets, colonel?" the general asked his adjutant.

"Sir, they're currently stationed along the Moray Steppes with the 88th, the 103rd, and the 14th Regiments. They helped repulse the last Insurrectionist incursion there," Bates replied. "To my knowledge, there has been no activity there for the past seven hours."

That was all McCandlish needed. "Those three regiments, which divisions are they from?"

"Sir, the 88th and the 103rd are both Armistead's, from 3rd Division. The 14th is from 2nd Division in Wyvern's Corps, Major General Landett's boys."

"Good," McCandlish nodded again, "Landett can spare them then; his division is in the best shape out of all four. Send the orders to those regiments and notify their respective division commanders. Pull our assets there over to Mount Araquiel. Armistead's boys on that mountain will get their reinforcements."

* * *

The pelican ride to the front lines was bumpy, to say the least. The Insurrectionists had increased their aerial activity over the Black Hills lately; the 3rd Air Wing under the command of Colonel Dominique was able to keep most of the enemy air forces at bay, but they were not miracle workers.

"Passing Delta Line! ETA to Mount Araquiel: two minutes!" the pilot shouted from the cockpit.

The wind howled past the pelican, a light breeze whipping back around and blowing through the aft-deployment hatch. Alex and Sam were unaffected by this; MJOLNIR armor could operate in zero-gee, vacuum environments. Wind was nothing.

There were four more marines in the troop bay with the Spartans; two buck privates, a lance corporal, and a lieutenant. All were former-wounded returning to active duty after recovering from whatever had put them on the shelf.

"Where are you lucky sons of guns headed?" the lieutenant asked the Spartans as the pelican ducked below a large formation of cumulonimbus clouds.

"Mount Araquiel, sir," Alex replied. He glanced at the Lieutenant's IFF friend/foe tag. Apparently, he was Lieutenant Hiram Young, executive officer of India Company, 54th Regiment, 3rd Division.

Lieutenant Young nodded. "I'm headed to grid square Gold-38, right next door. I heard it's getting rough down there these past few-"

The pelican rocked suddenly, cutting the lieutenant off mid-sentence.

"_Shit!_ Incoming contacts!" the pilot shouted from the cockpit. "Everyone strap in!"

Alex swore under his breath along with the marines, sitting down on the closest seat and strapping himself down with the restraints. Not a moment too soon, either. The pilot sent the pelican into a corkscrew, turning the interior of the dropship in a perpetual, rolling circle. Alex had been through similar experiences during the Great War and was unaffected by these maneuvers, but the faces of the younger marines began to turn green.

"Stabilizing," the pilot smoothed the pelican's trajectory and reestablished control over the navigation systems. As the pelican flattened out, a group of six Insurrectionist fighters shot right past the dropship. Alex watched them through the aft deployment hatch. He saw them continue on their course for a second before banking abruptly and turning back.

"Knife-One-Eleven, this is Baker-68, call-sign: Thunderstrike; I need an immediate assist at grid square Cyan-132; I have bogeys on my tail, repeat: I have bogeys on my tail, over!" the pilot screamed into his COM. The proximity alert began to go nuts as the enemy fighters opened fire, sending a pair of missiles streaking through the air, accompanied with machinegun-fire from their 70-millimeter nose-mounted cannons.

"Solid copy, Thunderstrike," a voice replied from the COM, "Hang in there."

"Taking evasive action; hold down your lunches!" the pilot threw the pelican into a sharp nosedive, heading straight down into the ground. As he dove, he fired off a spread of hot waffle to draw off the missiles. The missiles did not go for the bait, but their guidance systems did hesitate for a split-second, giving the pelican pilot enough time to break out of his dive and skim along the treetops.

The pair of missiles leveled out and continued their pursuit, quickly joined by an additional two. One of the four missiles ended up snagging on a tree, spinning out of control, and slamming into the ground, detonating in a fiery haze.

The pilot zigzagged through the hills and pulled up, rapidly gaining altitude and spinning around as he went. He slammed one of the controls and the pelican leveled out, heading right for the incoming Insurrectionist fighters.

As one, the remaining three missiles detonated harmlessly in the air as the Insurrectionist pilots who had fired them triggered their safety fail-safes which were put in place so that a missile could not turn back and destroy the ship which had fired it.

The pilot fired the pelican's nose cannons, painting the hull of the lead enemy fighter. The hostile fighter broke off, but its five companions darted in to fill the space. The pilot broke off, swerving right, and then pulling up once more.

The marines had their hands to their mouths, desperately trying to keep their stomachs down, or at least in the general area of their lower torsos.

The pilot ducked below a strafing run from two of the Insurrectionist fighters and banked sharply to avoid a missile fired from a third. The pilot wrestled with the controls for a moment and managed to bring the dropship around. A lone Insurrectionist fighter, the one which had just fired a missile, was moving across the pelican's line of fire to rejoin its companions.

The pilot did not hesitate. He slammed a fist down on the weapon controls and fired two ANVIL-II air-to-air missiles from the starboard missile pod. The two rockets leapt out of the missile pod and slammed into the side of the Insurrectionist fighter, obliterating it.

"Scratch one fighter!" the pilot shouted, "Coming about! Knife-One-Eleven, where the hell are you guys?!"

"Establishing inbound vector; standby, Thunderstrike," Knife-One-Eleven responded.

"Easier said than done…" the pilot muttered, throwing his pelican back over to the left, heading southwest towards another pair of Insurrectionist fighters. The cockpit windows sprouted a series of spider-web cracks as the front of the dropship was hit by the enemy fighters' front cannons. The pilot fired off another pair of missiles and watched the two Insurrectionist fighters scatter. He locked onto the first fighter and pursued, opening fire with the pelican's nose-mounted cannons. He bared his teeth in a savage grin as he scored a hit, tearing the enemy's engines apart. The enemy fighter broke apart in a small explosion, falling back to the earth.

The proximity alert began to go off again. "Shit, they're back on my tail!" the pilot cried, "Attempting to disengage…"

Alex could see the four Insurrectionist fighters bearing down on the pelican dropship from behind. A small worm of fear crawled into his gut; the pelican was at the mercy of those fighters, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. This was just as bad as the ship-to-ship naval battles in space.

The four fighters drew closer. Alex was actually able to see a missile begin to launch from the lead fighter's missile pod when it suddenly brewed up in a bright yellow fireball. The torn, ruined pieces of the former fighter scattered, dropping to the ground.

A squadron of five UNSC longsword fighters swooped in from the north, their frontal and ventral cannons ablaze. Another Insurrectionist fighter was knocked out of the sky as it tried to veer off.

The other two fighters broke off their run and attempted to regroup, but the longsword squadron broke formation and individually pursued both air craft.

"This is Knife-One-Eleven," the aerial squad leader said over the COM, "We'll mop up here, Thunderstrike; continue on your course."

"Much obliged, One-Eleven," the pilot replied, "Thunderstrike out."

The rest of the trip to Mount Araquiel took the promised two minutes. "This is your stop, my Spartan friends!" the pilot hollered, bringing the pelican down to the summit of the mountain.

Alex and Sam both unstrapped themselves and staggered out of the troop bay and hopped out of the aft hatch onto the ground outside. They exchanged nods with the marines and the lieutenant as the pelican rose back into the air and departed, moving off to deploy the marines inside back to their units.

Sam and Alex both hurried over to the group of camo-pattern canopies which sheltered a conglomerate of tables and equipment stands laden with COM systems, intra-unit interfaces, and holo-tables, along with many other pieces of technology dedicated to the smooth running of a military unit.

Alex spotted the CO of the 29th Regiment, Colonel Westfield, at one of those holo-tables, listening to one of his subordinates give him a status update on one of the companies stationed on the southern slopes of the mountain. He whistled to Sam and pointed at the colonel.

She nodded and fell in step next to him. The two Spartans made their way through the Regimental HQ. There were not as many fearful or anxious glances in their direction from the HQ staff here; most of them were all too busy to pay them any heed. Alex did not complain.

"What do you mean, Echo Company's mortar teams are short on ordinance?!" Colonel Westfield was shouting into a COM to one of his company commanders, "Did you? Are you certain?" the colonel paused as he listened to the CO of Echo Company's reply, "Well, the quartermasters have been overtaxed for ordinance these past few days…tell you what; I'll have you patched through to the 54th, Colonel Halpern's Regiment. They're off the line right now, they should be able to spare a few rockets…right. Good luck, son, HQ out."

The colonel killed the COM channel and acknowledged the presence of the two Spartans for the first time. He gave them a quick nod. "Good to see you both, again," the regimental commander said as he returned his attention to the holo-table, watching intently as a lance of red dots crashed into the blue UNSC line.

"Likewise, sir," Sam replied, giving the colonel his due respect. Westfield had been the officer to greet and debrief Alex and Sam after their odyssey through the streets of Côte d'Azur; it had been his regiment's lines which they had stumbled upon.

Westfield let out a weary sigh as he watched his line get hit by the Insurrectionists. "Rebs have been beating the shit out of the lines on this mountain ever since McCandlish brought us all here. When I got General Hasegawa to request McCandlish for reinforcements, I'll admit I wasn't expecting this," the colonel chuckled, "But I have to give the old Scotsman points; he always _does_ come through, one way or another."

"Where are you sticking us, sir?" Sam asked next.

"I'm going to stick you in with Echo Company towards the left flank," Westfield replied, studying the holo-table to determine where the two Spartans could be most useful. "That's where I want you for now, but if you spot a place where you can be of better use than with Echo Company, then go to that place. You are not attached to any specific unit; help the line wherever it needs helping. The Rebs are hitting the line right now, so I will not keep you any longer. Any questions?"

"No, sir," Alex and Sam replied in unison.

"Good, that's what I like to hear. Dismissed."

Sam and Alex did not bother taking a vehicle to the front lines. Instead, they ran. With the MJOLNIR, they were able to move pretty much as fast as a warthog could while still being able to go through places a vehicle couldn't.

The regimental HQ of the 29th Regiment had not been situated very far from the lines; the two Spartans reached the secondary lines in less than two minutes. Marines manning those lines directed them further southeast, advising them to keep their heads down.

Mongooses and warthog transports were rushing back and forth between the secondary lines and the forward emplacements, ferrying messages and supplies. Sam and Alex ran alongside several of these vehicles. The drivers cast the Spartans incredulous glances, surprised to see these strange armored soldiers running as fast as they were driving.

The rain lightened a little bit, but not much. It thinned out enough to make it easier to see through; it was no longer a curtain of water, but the mist still wreaked havoc with long-range visibility.

Alex instinctively ducked as a hail of tracer rounds fired from an Insurrectionist heavy machinegun emplacement soared over his head. The spectacle was an odd one, seeing those little streaks of lightning cutting through the gray rain.

"God damn, how much longer is this rain going to last?" Alex muttered to his wife over the TEAMCOM.

"It's Sigma Octanus IV, Ace; weather here moves slower than a quadruple amputee with crutches," Sam grumbled, "Plus, it's monsoon season for this part of the planet. It's going to be wet for a long time."

"Damn rain isn't exactly every sniper's best friend," Alex sighed.

The Ambroses reached the forward lines just in time to catch an artillery barrage. The familiar, telltale screech of the shells streaking through the sky towards their targets filled the air. Cries and screams of "_Incoming!_" and "_Take_ _cover!_" rose up from the front lines as the marines heard the noises as well.

"That's our cue," Sam exclaimed, grabbing her husband by the arm and sprinting down the final stretch of ground between them and the front lines, leaping into the nearest trench, surprising a cluster of marines already hunkered down in the fortification.

"Spartans?!" one of them exclaimed, "Shit, the brass thinks the situation's _that_ bad, huh?"

"Worse," another rasped.

"Cut the chatter, ladies!" a sergeant hollered over from a nearby foxhole.

The earth started to shake as the fury of the Insurrectionist artillery slammed into the front lines of the 29th Regiment. One shell landed particularly close to the trench Alex and Sam were in, spraying dirt and earth over the top and onto its occupants.

The barrage seemed to drag on and on, but according to Alex's mission clock it only lasted for three minutes. The Insurrectionists were smart in that regard; if they continuously pounded the UNSC lines nonstop for hours or days, it would tear up the ground and make it hard to move on. If they intended to take that very same ground in the future, it would be a bad idea to ruin the ground they would be advancing over. The Insurrectionists were a bit lacking in the tactics department, but at least some of their commanders had some measure of intelligence between their ears.

The artillery barrage petered out. After the last few straggling shells hit the dirt, the cries for medics and corpsmen were clearly audible up and down the lines.

"You have things covered down here?" Alex asked his wife.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Sam replied, pulling her BR55 off of her back and loading it.

"I'm going to go find a nest, then," Alex got to his feet and dusted himself off. He leaned in to give Sam a kiss before remembering that he was wearing a MJOLNIR helmet. He hesitated for a second, and then drew two fingers across his faceplate in a Spartan smile, the closest thing to a display of emotion while encased in MJOLNIR power armor, one of the many silent communication signals they had learned during their training on Onyx.

Sam repeated the gesture, giving Alex a warm thump on the shoulder. "Go make 'em miserable."

Alex climbed out of the trench and hurried away from the front lines. He turned away from the gentler slopes leading up to the summit of the mountain, instead heading towards the rough, steep rock formations over to the northeast. He probably moved over to the position of another battalion by the time he reached those rock formations. He rubbed his hands together and leaped up, clasping the edge of an overhang and pulling himself up, getting a good look at the rest of the formations. They rose up several hundred feet into the sky, twisted jumbles of cliff faces, boulders, ledges, and shelves.

A sniper's playground.

Alex slid along the ledge which he had pulled himself up onto and found a cleft in the rock, running into the mountain like a mini-gorge. He slid into that cleft and found a spot where the two sides were close together and, pressing his back against one side, he pushed himself up with his hands and feet, meter by meter.

The top of the cleft opened up into a relatively spacious, somewhat flat ledge. The edge of that ledge was littered with large boulders and even had a good fringe of shrubbery springing up from the earth packed into the edge. Alex couldn't ask for a better spot.

The blue-eyed Spartan went prone and unshouldered his sniper rifle. He linked the oracle scope to his HUD and performed a few last-minute micro-recalibrations to ensure optimal accuracy. When he was done, he rested the rifle on a small rock and lined it up. He then broke the link with his HUD, instead manually leaning forward and peering through the scope with his eyes. He preferred using his eyes as opposed to a remote uplink straight into his helmet's heads-up display, like many other Spartan snipers favored.

He could barely see through the mist, so he switched the scope to black and white thermal imaging. Heat signatures showed up as stark white silhouettes against the blacks and grays of the natural environment. This cut right through the rain and allowed Alex to clearly see what the Insurrectionists were hitting the lines with. The sight was enough to make him swear under his breath.

What had to be at least a division of Insurrectionist infantry were advancing through the rain, up the slopes of Mount Araquiel, and right into the UNSC fortifications. He could see several places where the soldiers in gray had breached the fortifications and were dropping down into the trenches, engaging the marines in fierce, bloody hand-to-hand combat.

As much as Alex wanted to help the marines there, his attention was required elsewhere. A good-sized amount of Insurrectionist tanks were supporting the advance as well, keeping the marines' heads, for the most part, down.

Alex did a quick sweep from tank to tank. Many of them were buttoned up tight, but there were a number with their commanders riding with their head and shoulders in the cupola. The blue-eyed Spartan centered his crosshairs on the head of the first exposed tank commander and squeezed the trigger. The sniper rifle barely twitched as the high-velocity round leapt from the end of the barrel and traversed the distance from sniper to target in a little more than a second. The tank commander's head flopped back in a spray of red. Alex could clearly see the entry and exit wounds in the man's skull as he slumped over the turret.

Alex took out several more bold tank commanders in the same fashion. After their deaths, their comrades took notice of the new danger of exposing themselves. Most of the tank commanders who had been riding in their cupolas quickly ducked down into their tanks, sealing the hatches over their heads.

Alex shrugged, adjusting his aim and focusing on heavy machinegun emplacements. The heavy machinegun nests usually had a crew of two; one to aim and fire the turret, another to feed in the ammunition.

Two shots at a time, Alex lessened the amount of lead flying into the UNSC lines.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion occurred right behind Alex, showering the Spartan with rocks and debris. A smoking crater appeared in the cliff face behind the ledge which he was sniping on.

Alex's vision whited out momentarily and his ears were filled with a loud ringing. The Spartan shook his head and managed to clear his vision. His ears were still ringing, but he was still able to barely see. He saw several more tanks turn and aim their barrels further up the mountain. Right towards the Spartan.

Alex swore violently, gathering up his rifle and throwing himself over the edge just as the tanks fired. The ledge was nearly torn apart by the force of several high-explosive shells slamming into it. The ledge itself remained intact, but anything on it would have been vaporized.

Alex smacked his head on an outcropping as he fell. He hit the next ledge down on his back, his head swimming with pain and disorientation; the knock to his head had been a hard one. Ignoring the pain, the Spartan quickly picked himself back up and moved off, climbing over to another cleft in the rocks, hunkering down behind a pair of boulders.

He flipped to his TEAMBIO and checked for any injuries. Finding nothing life-threatening, he reverted back to his normal HUD settings and took aim with his sniper rifle once more. Four shots later, two more Insurrectionist machineguns fell silent.

As Alex ejected the empty mag and slid a new one in, a chunk of one of the boulders suddenly exploded, showering Alex with pebbles and shards. The Spartan instantly pulled back. There was no mistaking it; that had been an enemy sniper. The only reason he had missed was probably because of the rain.

Alex relocated, sliding slowly over to the left. He eased up to a clump of grass and rested his sniper rifle's barrel, peering through the scope, sweeping through the trees and rock formations down in the foothills, searching for the enemy sniper who had him in his sights.

Alex flicked his gaze over to the bullet hole in the boulder, getting the angle of the shot. He followed that angle down to a large stretch of trees, another sniper's playground. Those trees were spaced close enough to render thermal imaging next to useless; any possible white shapes were lost in a jumble of gray and black branches.

Alex nevertheless persisted, methodically searching through the trees. He put himself in the enemy sniper's shoes, searching for the places where he would hide if _he_ were the one trying to snipe someone in the mountains. He checked through another well-placed cluster of banyan trees with interweaving vines, perfect cover and concealment while keeping the line of sight and fire open. Nothing. "_Sneaky bastard_…" Alex murmured, sweeping through another section of trees.

There was a steady _whump whump_ of mortars firing from behind the Insurrectionist advance, followed up by nearby explosions as they pounded the place where he had been holed up. They were probably hitting the nests of other UNSC snipers as well. Alex ignored them and remained focused on the trees. He moved to another pair of banyan trees and checked them for the sniper next.

Nothing. Alex moved his gaze over to the…_wait_-

Alex spotted movement among the intertwined roots of the two trees. He started to look back when another sniper round sliced right past his head. The energy shields were instantly drained and his helmet received a sear mark on its left side as the sniper round grazed it.

"_Fuck!_" Alex swore again, withdrawing once more and leaning back against the boulder which had been to his right, taking several deep breaths. "So…my energy shields won't be able to block a sniper shot…" the blue-eyed Spartan murmured to himself, if only to hear his own voice to affirm the fact. Alex removed the gauntlet on his left hand and ran a finger over the scar on the side of his helmet. Had it hit only a little to the right, Alex would be dead, minus an eye.

The Spartan put his gauntlet back on, sealing it onto the rest of the armor. The shields flickered and regenerated with a dull flash. The empty shield indicator bar at the top of Alex's HUD turned blue, quickly reaching full charge.

Alex set his rifle down on the ground and took one last deep breath, clearing his thoughts. He had to tread carefully; whoever that sniper was, he was really good. Shame that skill such as that was fighting for the wrong side.

Alex established an uplink interface with the oracle scope on his sniper rifle and patched it through to his HUD. Now, he saw through his visor whatever the scope was pointed at. A smile tugged at the corner of the Spartan's mouth; he couldn't for the life of him imagine how he and his teammates had survived the Great War without MJOLNIR.

As quickly as it appeared, that smile vanished. His teammates _hadn't_ survived the Great War without MJOLNIR, not all of them. Alex's mouth shrunk to a hard, bitter line as he thought about that fact while removing the oracle scope from the sniper rifle.

The Spartan's mind flashed back to the woodlands and cliffs and deserts of Installation 00, the artificial Forerunner world known as the 'Ark'. The place of the final battle of the Great War, and the place where two of his former team, his _family_ had met their deaths. He saw Emma-G132, sprawled out on September Beach; plasma burns riddled across her chest and stomach. If she had had energy shields, she could have shrugged off those hits and dove for cover.

Alex saw Robin-G227—after whom his son had been named—convulsing and bleeding out in the driver's seat of the Gauss warthog which Team Rapier had used to help clear the area around the Citadel. If he had been wearing MJOLNIR armor with energy shields, those two beam rifle shots from the Jackal sniper would have drained his shields, but left him unharmed. MJOLNIR could have kept them alive.

The faint, half-smile returned to Alex's face, but this time it was a bitter, cynical expression. Spartan-IIIs having MJOLNIR powered assault armor would have been a contradiction. Spartan-IIIs had been created to fight like the Spartan-IIs who had come before them, yes…but ultimately, what had allowed Colonel James Ackerson to start the program was the fact that Spartan-IIIs would be cheaper. Expendable. Alpha Company had been wiped out on K7-49 and Beta Company on Pegasi Delta, and no one had shed a tear, save for the trainers themselves. The brass saw them as 'acceptable losses' and moved right on to spawn a new batch of heroes. Had it not been for the end of the war when it happened, Alex had no doubt that Gamma Company would have eventually met the same fate as its predecessors, paving the path for Delta Company to follow in its footsteps. Hell, Gamma Company had pretty much already _been_ wiped out during the Battle of Earth; out of 330, only thirty-some Spartans were still alive today.

Alex shook his head again, pushing those thoughts away to the dark corners of his mind. Contemplating the flaws of the UNSC and the basis of his existence could wait. Right now, Alex had a sniper to kill.

Alex removed the oracle scope from his sniper rifle and checked the uplink connecting his HUD with the scope. Satisfied that it was working normally, he went prone again and moved back past his old sniper spot between the two large boulders and stopped next to the right-hand boulder. He stayed away from the edge, however. He reached out and pulled his rifle close, but did not deploy it. Instead, he grabbed the oracle scope and slowly, gently, slid it around the side of the boulder. Whatever the scope was pointed at was projected onto his HUD, so he twisted it around and acquired the stretch of woods which the sniper was lurking around in. He magnified the scope and closely observed the trees, centering in on the spot where the sniper had fired the shot which had grazed his helmet.

Alex knew the enemy sniper would no longer be there—the Insurrectionist had shown himself to be too good and experienced a soldier—and not stupid enough—to remain in the same sniper nest after firing at another sniper. Still, it was as good a starting point as any. Even so, Alex, for the life of him, could not spot the enemy.

The blue-eyed Spartan gritted his teeth in frustration. Every minute he spent locked in this duel with his hidden rival was another minute Insurrectionist machineguns were able to tear into the UNSC lines unchallenged.

Alex was about to break off and try to set up a distraction for the sniper when he caught a slight movement off at the fringes of his sight. He snapped the scope over to the spot where he had seen the movement and closely observed the berry bush there. Sure enough, he was able to trace the pattern of a woodland ghillie suit among the leaves and twigs. The man was lying on his stomach under that berry bush, his rifle trained intently on the ledge where Alex was lying, scanning, waiting for the Spartan to show his head again.

Alex kept the scope aimed at the man for another second, memorizing where he was lying. He then drew his scope back and reattached it onto his sniper rifle. The oracle scope locked itself in with a satisfying _snick_.

Alex chambered a round and held the sniper rifle aloft for a second, taking several more deep breaths. He did not like taking fast-reaction corner shots like this, but at times like this he had no choice. He took one last deep breath and willed himself to calm down. His heartbeat slowed down and seemed to stop for a moment. He entered the state most snipers felt when they knew it was the right time to take a shot. There were many names for it, the most common being 'the zone', though Alex never felt the need to name it. He felt it when he needed to and acted on it when he needed to; that was good enough.

The Spartan whipped around the side of the boulder, already bringing the oracle scope up to his eye. He sensed a small movement as the enemy sniper spotted him and brought his rifle over to the side a tad to acquire him as a target.

Fast, but not fast enough.

Alex squeezed the trigger and the sniper rifle coughed. A split-second later, the enemy sniper was down, bleeding from the chest, writhing on the ground, his mouth open in a silent scream. Alex centered his crosshairs on the man and finished him off with a second shot, striking him in the head.

Alex paused for a moment in some measure of respect for the other man. He had been a damn good sniper.

Alex returned his attention back to the battle below. The Insurrectionists had fully hit the 29th Regiment's lines, fighting hand-to-hand in some places for control of the trenches. Alex raked through those trenches, thinning the tide of gray wherever he could. UNSC machineguns blazed to life, temporarily repulsing the Insurrectionists, but enemy tanks took careful aim and opened fire, reducing a good number of emplacements to craters and ashes.

"This is going to Hell in a handbasket…" Alex murmured to himself as he took out an Insurrectionist lieutenant leading a trench raid.

The battle dragged on for another hour. Soon, a good number of the marines and Insurrectionists were fighting with wounds. It was no longer uncommon to see men fighting with less than five fingers on their hands, with blood coagulating on their battledress, or with bandages or slings. Alex and the rest of the UNSC snipers scattered all over Mount Araquiel did their utmost to hamper the enemy's efforts, but the Insurrectionists were like an unstoppable tide, sending wave after wave up against the lines. Alex could observe those Insurrectionists throwing themselves at the UNSC defenses. Many of them were wounded or killed, but they always gained a foothold. The ones who broke and ran were eventually shot by their commissars. Alex did not target the commissars for precisely that reason; every Insurrectionist deserter they shot today was another soldier who couldn't shoot at the marines tomorrow.

The enemy tanks advanced steadily, wreaking havoc against the UNSC defenders. The marines in the first trenches finally broke under the weight of the Insurrectionist attack. The first few trenches were actually taken by the Insurrectionists, the marines driven back.

As if that were a splash of cold water in the faces of the powers that be, a familiar rushing, rumbling sound filled the air, growling louder as it neared the lines at Mount Araquiel.

"Now where the hell have _you_ flyboys been this whole time?" Alex murmured again as the longsword fighters crested the horizon and soared over the battle. They flew off to the southeast for a second before banking and turning back, dipping down low and opening fire with their 110 millimeter nose-mounted and ventral rotary cannons, which ripped through the clumps of advancing soldiers. ANVIL-II air-to-ground missiles made short work of several of the Insurrectionist tanks.

As the armor hastily began to pull back, another rumbling filled the air. Alex looked to the east and saw a formation of arrowhead-shaped shortsword bombers flying low to the ground. As they passed over the Insurrectionists, they dropped the ordinance on their heads and carpet-bombed them.

A good number of the soldiers in gray fell, and many did not get back up. The longsword fighters finished driving off the enemy tanks before joining the shortswords and focusing on the infantry. As they did so, a large number of Insurrectionist fighters crested the southern horizon, straight out of Côte d'Azur. The shortswords, their job complete, made an about-face and headed back to the airstrip situated near the Spire. The longswords rose up to meet this new threat. The UNSC fighters engaged in a fierce dogfight against the Insurrectionist air forces over Mount Araquiel for several minutes. Burning wrecks fell out of the sky, littering the battlefield with more destruction. Soon after, though, the longswords broke off their attack and headed back to base as well.

The remaining Insurrectionist fighters made a single strafing run against the marines before they, too, retreated, heading off to attack another portion of the Black Hills.

Though the UNSC air support had been driven off, its task had been accomplished. The Insurrectionist advance had been destroyed. Not destroyed as in slaughtered and annihilated, but destroyed as in all organization had collapsed. A large swathe of Insurrectionists had been cut down where the shortswords had attacked. The Insurrectionists in the captured UNSC trenches suddenly found themselves very much alone.

Alex saw many of them attempt to surrender, but UNSC marines opened fire on them anyway, cutting them down like wheat during the harvest. The Insurrectionists further on down the slopes had broken into a full retreat, heading back to their lines to fight another day.

Alex peered through this scope and took out several stragglers before breaking off. He straightened up and rested against the boulders, stretching his back and arms, allowing himself a nice, long yawn.

The blue-eyed Spartan manually opened a COM channel with Sam. "Sam? You still alive down there?"

"More or less, Ace," Sam responded after a few seconds. "Can't say the same for a good number of the leathernecks down here, though. I don't even _want_ to know what the casualty figures for this are going to be. How about you?"

"I'm fine," Alex replied quickly, rubbing the scar on his helmet as he spoke. The Spartan observed the battlefield in its entirety for the first time. Smoke was rising and fires burned, despite the rain. There were probably enough corpses on the ground to populate a small village. "When this whole thing is over, it'll be a miracle if _anyone's_ left alive to go back home."


	57. Chapter 56: The Tirque

Chapter Fifty-Six: The Tirque

**1227 hours, November 24, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Days Later)  
Elpis, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC **_**Blood and Iron**_

Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin watched the UNSC _Paris Burning_ break apart under the impact of the final MAC round fired from the opposing Insurrectionist flagship. The fleet commander muttered under his breath as he watched his subordinate ship's destruction. The _Paris_ had been the fourth ship to be destroyed in the latest Insurrectionist naval attack.

"The _Paris_ is gone, sir," Commander Tomlinson confirmed the loss.

"Scan for survivors," Al-Hassin ordered without a second's hesitation. There was some small hope of at least a few survivors; the _Paris Burning_ had had at least _some_ time to organize an evacuation.

After a few seconds, Commander Tomlinson said, "Sir, I'm picking up over a dozen lifepod signatures from the wreckage. Should we-"

"No," Al-Hassin interrupted his first officer, "Contact the _Winchester_; tell Captain Felmann to proceed with caution. If he is unable to safely recover those pods…so be it. Lieutenant Howell, I need a status update."

Lieutenant Howell, the officer manning the secondary tactical station, performed a quick sensor sweep of the ongoing naval battle, saying, "Admiral, sir, the Insurrectionists still have a dozen vessels attacking the dark side of Elpis. Preston and Eisner's battlegroups have engaged and are taking light casualties as we-"

Several lights and a warning alarm beeped suddenly on Commander Tomlinson's primary tactical console. The first officer's gaze snapped over to the source of the commotion. His forehead creased with frown lines, and then lapsed briefly into an expression of horror before he regained his composure. "Multiple pings detected near the planet's southern pole," Tomlinson reported, "Slipspace signatures, sir."

"Slipspace signatures?" Al-Hasin echoed. "Are they ours?"

"Unknown, attempting to isolate…"

Al-Hassin turned to Lieutenant Howell next. "Lieutenant, access the daily reports from Archimedes Station, see if they spotted anything in the slipstream earlier today."

"Aye, sir, checking now."

"Sir, the signatures are emerging," Commander Tomlinson reported, "They're…I'm not exactly sure _what_ they are… They sure aren't ours, sir."

"Admiral, I have the report from Archimedes RSO," Howell squinted at the data now streaming through his console, "It looks like the personnel there spotted a huge mass in slipspace, but they appear to have dismissed it as an asteroid. It would seem that they were mistaken."

Admiral Al-Hassin let out a low moan as his subordinate said that. "When will these incompetents ever learn?" the admiral muttered. "Mass in slipspace _overlaps_…it's a wonder we ever survived the Great War with intelligence like this."

Al-Hassin found it cruelly ironic that the error of assuming that a group of enemy ships in slipspace had been a large asteroid had last occurred here, in the Sigma Octanus System, near the end of the Great War. A battlegroup of Covenant ships had slid in-system, and the Archimedes scanning station at the edge of the system had dismissed the slipspace resonance of the four ships as an asteroid. It had only been the quick thinking and intuitiveness of none other than Captain Jacob Keyes, the legendary 'Schoolmaster', which had prevented complete disaster.

This situation was a completely different one. Admiral Al-Hassin would leave investigating how the crew of the Archimedes RSO could mistake an entire fleet for an asteroid for another, more convenient time. Right now, he had a fleet to keep alive.

"Mister Tomlinson, do you have a fix on the new arrivals?" Admiral Al-Hassin asked his exec.

"Aye, sir, I'm putting it onscreen right now," Tomlinson flexed his fingers and input the commands into his console.

The viewscreen flickered briefly and the view of the two UNSC battlegroups dueling with the latest Insurrectionist attack was quickly replaced with one of the lower reaches of Sigma Octanus IV. As the bridge crew of the _Blood and Iron_ watched, two dozen or so purple-white slipspace ruptures were materializing several dozen million kilometers away from the planet's south pole. The ships which emerged from those ruptures were…

"Magnify," Al-Hassin ordered. He squinted at the viewscreen as the image zoomed in on those ships. They were a rusty, golden-yellow hue, conical in shape. Their engines were set in the back, which was a wide oval. The rest of the ships tapered down almost to a point in the front. Instead of a sharp point in the very front, the alien vessels had an odd, bluish-white, glowing contraption which looked similar to an oversized weather probe which used to be mounted on hurricane planes.

There weren't a whole lot of them. For some reason, Al-Hassin got the feeling that this group of alien vessels was just an advance force.

"What the hell are those things…?" the Lieutenant Howell whispered.

"Well, whatever they are, they're sending forces groundside," Lieutenant Sorrel, the helmsman, observed. Sure enough, a steady flow of dropships was visible from several of the alien ships, streaming through the orbital defense grid.

"Scipio!" Al-Hassin called out, "Scipio, do you have any form of ID on those vessels?"

The shipboard smart AI shimmered into appearance over the holo-pad set next to Al-Hassin's command chair. "Nothing dead-certain, admiral," the holographic Roman centurion adjusted his plumed helmet, staring off into space as he searched for any relevant data which could shed some light on those alien vessels. "If HIGHCOM knows anything about these ships, they-"

"Sir, I'm receiving a priority hail from the _Day of Wrath,_" Ensign Rush, the communications officer said suddenly, cutting the AI off mid-sentence.

Al-Hassin cocked an eyebrow. "They obviously have something to say; patch them through."

The viewscreen flickered again. This time, it switched to the view of the smaller, more compact bridge of a UNSC frigate. The captain of the other ship was a stocky, well-built man with a completely shaved head and a thick, bristling black mustache dominating his upper lip. He had been leaning over one of his bridge's tactical consoles when Al-Hassin opened the channel with him. "Admiral Al-Hassin, sir," the captain offered a quick salute.

"Captain Raemius," Al-Hassin returned the salute, "What have you got for me?"

"Sir, my ship has encountered those vessels before," Captain Raemius said.

Al-Hassin's other eyebrow shot up to the peak of his forehead, his interest completely and unconditionally captured. "Clarify."

"ONI forbid us to tell anyone about what had happened, but the spooks can go to Hell for all I'm concerned right now," Raemius began, "It was four months ago, before we even knew of the Insurrectionists' existence. My ship was the one which responded to the distress call sent from the Cibola colony world. When we arrived there, we encountered several Insurrectionist frigates, but there were also two alien vessels which were of the same make as the ones which just emerged in-system. From them, we picked up several encrypted transmissions pertaining to an attack in UNSC space—I assume they were referring to the battle happening now—but we also picked up references to the use of a superweapon which would-"

Al-Hassin held up his hand, stopping the other captain. "Hold up. Do you have an idea for the technological level of these new…things?"

Captain Raemius shook his head. "No, sir; the ships we encountered fled into slipspace when we made contact. I would-"

"Sir, a contingent of the alien vessels are breaking off and heading towards us," Commander Tomlinson informed the admiral.

Al-Hassin turned back to Raemius and apologized. "I'm sorry, Captain, but my attention is needed elsewhere. Have your AI compile all of its stored data of those aliens, if ONI left anything, and send it to my science teams. Al-Hassin out," the admiral waved a hand and killed the channel, returning the viewscreen to normal. He looked off towards Sigma Octanus IV. Sure enough, a group of six alien vessels had broken away from their main formation and were heading right towards the Seventh Fleet's position at Elpis.

Al-Hassin did not waste another second. "Mr. Rush, get onto the FLEETCOM and contact all vessels. I want every vessel with an operational MAC cannon and reactor to rendezvous at the coordinates I am sending to you," the admiral ordered the communications officer, typing in a set of coordinates and sending it off.

The two battlegroups dueling with the Insurrectionist vessels disengaged and fell back, steadily making their way towards the rally point. The Insurrectionist ships turned to follow, but when they saw the first of the other sixty or seventy ships left in the Seventh Fleet crest around the moon's horizon, they were discouraged from proceeding any further. They made an about-face and headed back towards the planet, eventually passing by the advancing alien ships.

The Seventh Fleet gradually assembled in a full spherical formation centered around the _Blood and Iron_.

"What's the status on our reactors?" Al-Hassin asked.

"According to engineering, reactors are at ninety-two percent and holding," Lieutenant Howell replied.

"Helm, come about to heading zero-two-two, declination of zero-zero-three," Al-Hassin ordered, "Put us in between the _Iridescence_ and the _Erebus_."

"Aye, sir, coming about now…" Lieutenant Sorrel—the helmsman—quickly entered in the commands into the ship's guidance systems, sending the _Blood and Iron_ on her requested trajectory.

"Fire Control, ready Archer Pods Twenty through Thirty-Five. Charge up our MACs and prep them for battle," Al-Hassin ordered next.

"Aye, sir," the weapons officer, Ensign Fitzgerald, nodded, setting to work.

Al-Hassin remained silent for the next two minutes, letting his bridge crew accomplish their determined tasks without any further interruption. The _Blood and Iron_ was just sliding into Al-Hassin's requested position when the alien vessels brushed on the edge of firing range. Now that they were closer, the bridge crew was finally able to properly appreciate the sheer size of those alien ships. They were nearly as large as a Sangheili battlecruiser; three times larger than a frigate, and even slightly larger than a marathon-class cruiser. The _Blood and Iron_, being a Macedonian-class fleet carrier, outsized the large alien ships, but not by much.

"What's the status on the mobilization?" Al-Hassin asked his exec.

The first officer glanced at the tactical console and said, "Sir, we have eighteen ships here at the rally point; all the rest are on the other side of the moon."

"What is their ETA?"

Ensign Rush held a hand to his ear as he received a new slough of transmissions from the fleet, "The ships on the dark side of Elpis will be here inside of five minutes, judging by their positions," the communications officer reported.

"Admiral, the aliens are powering up weapons," Commander Tomlinson warned.

"That's our cue," Al-Hassin adjusted his posture and took a deep breath. "Fire Control, plot firing solution for the lead vessel. Mr. Rush, contact the other ships and give them the green-light for offensive action against these new hostiles."

The sound of rapid-fire tapping came from the weapons station as Ensign Fitzgerald hastily input the appropriate commands and readings into his console. "Solution plotted, sir."

"Lock the solution into the computer, do not fire," Al-Hassin ordered. "Give them a salvo; launch Archer Pods Twenty through Twenty-Four."

"Aye, sir, firing Archer Pods Twenty through Twenty-Four now," Ensign Fitzgerald echoed.

The viewscreen showed the telltale streaks in the darkness of space as the archer missiles sped towards the enemy ship.

As this happened, a second alien ship drew past the first. The rod-shaped contraption at the cone-shaped vessel's front point started to glow a harsh, crackling red. The charge grew brighter, turning to ruby, then crimson, and then pink. When it turned white, the energy was released in the form of a searing, crackling beam of red which shot out of the front of the ship, lancing into the _Erebus_; the destroyer to the _Blood and Iron's_ right.

The _Erebus_ was gutted stem to stern. It listed rapidly, spinning out. The rapid decompression of the atmosphere in the ship resulted in a cataclysmic explosion which rent the ship asunder. Al-Hassin forced himself to watch the destruction of yet another of his ships. He took one look at the wreckage and did not even bother to order a scan for lifepods.

"Send them to Hades, Mr. Fitzgerald," Al-Hassin ordered, his voice quiet with ice-cold anger.

"Aye, sir, with pleasure," Ensign Fitzgerald stabbed down on his controls.

The fleet carrier shuddered as its forward MAC cannon fired. The superheavy, depleted uranium slug slammed into the fore of the targeted alien vessel…and bounced right off. The alien vessel's armor was severely damaged, with hull breaches in multiple sections, but it had not been gutted.

A moment later, the missiles struck. Point defense lasers snapped out from the front of the targeted alien vessel, taking out more than half of the missiles before they even got close. The remaining missiles impacted the already-damaged armor and managed to tear their way inside, dealing the front sections of the alien vessel a good amount of internal damage. The ship, however, still functioned perfectly well enough to continue to fight. Its frontal beam weapon began to charge up, the gradually growing orb of energy turning from bright red to pink as it powered up. The alien ship came about, aiming its fore straight at the _Blood and Iron_.

Al-Hassin's blood ran cold. "Fire Control, what's the charge on our forward MAC?"

"Forward MAC is at forty-six percent charge and rising, sir," Ensign Fitzgerald reported.

_Too slow_… Al-Hassin thought fast. He turned to his Commander Tomlinson, saying, "Number One, divert power from all systems except for life support to the MAC gun capacitators; we need it charged _now_."

"Enabling…" the exec murmured, obeying Al-Hassin's orders.

"Charge rate increased," Fitzgerald reported, "MAC cannon now at eighty-three percent and rising."

"That's not good enough, Fire Control!" Al-Hassin exclaimed, watching as the enemy vessel's beam weapon charge turned white. Suddenly, there was an explosion on the port-side lateral armor as a second MAC round slammed into the conical alien vessel's side. The shot missed the weakened portion of armor which the _Blood and Iron_ had hit, but it did succeed in pushing the ship off course just as it fired. The crackling red beam of energy boiled out of the projector at the fore of the alien ship, but as the ship was hit it went wide, shooting off harmlessly into space and dissipating.

Twelve seconds passed before Ensign Fitzgerald reported the MAC cannon ready to fire again.

"Compensate for the hostile's change in position and recompute," Al-Hassin ordered.

"Done, sir."

"Fire."

_**BOOM**_

The Macedonian-class fleet carrier shuddered again as its MAC fired a second time. The MAC round hit the weakened starboard frontal armor of the alien. This time, the round punched right through. The decompressing atmosphere resulted in a second, massive explosion which ripped apart the entire frontal sections of the alien ship. Only the stern of the ship was left; just a set of engines drifting helplessly without any control or guidance from the now-destroyed bridge. It remained for a second afterward before it, too, brewed up.

"COM, hail the _Southern Pride_," Al-Hassin ordered Ensign Rush, typing in a series of data to send off to his communications officer. "I am composing a firing solution for their MAC. Tell them to hold their position and fire on my mark."

"Aye, sir," Ensign Rush isolated the signal of the _Southern Pride_ and started to relay the orders.

"Helm, come about to heading zero-six-three, inclination of zero-zero-zero point seven-three," Al-Hassin ordered next, "Scipio, warm up the plasma turrets!"

"Ah, good, the plasma turrets; _thank you_, admiral," Scipio gave a slight bow to the admiral as he took control of the _Blood and Iron's_ newest weapons.

It amused Al-Hassin how much Scipio seemed to enjoy using the plasma turrets. Well, the AI knew more about them than anyone else did; he was welcome to them.

The _Blood and Iron_ slid out of its niche in the portion of the Seventh Fleet which had gathered. Out of the corner of his eye, Al-Hassin saw another of the alien vessels fire their frontal beam weapon again. He gritted his teeth, but held to his course. The _Blood and Iron_ pushed through the wreckage of the first alien ship and drew up towards a second ship, the ship which had gutted the _Erebus_.

"They're firing again!" Commander Tomlinson warned.

The _Blood and Iron_ rocked suddenly. The lights on the bridge went dark before the red backup lights snapped on. "Damage report!" Al-Hassin barked.

"Sir, they appear to have hit us with some sort of laser-cannon close combat weapon," Commander Tomlinson murmured, "Attempting to discern more about these weapons."

"Sir, we've nearly lost armor in sections ten through twenty-one on decks thirty-eight through forty-four," Lieutenant Howell reported, "Fires have been reported in those areas. I'm dispatching Lieutenant Commander Pierry's damage control parties to the area."

"Keep a close eye on those fires," Al-Hassin told his junior tactical officer. "If they grow out of control, sound the decompression alert in those sections and vent the atmosphere. We've come too far to be killed by something as small as a fire."

"Aye, sir."

Al-Hassin quickly returned his attention to the alien ship which the _Blood and Iron_ was drawing up alongside. "Helm, send us right down that ship's starboard length, standard broadside. Fire Control, ready Archer Pods Twenty-Five through Fifty."

"Archer Pods Twenty-Five through Fifty ready to fire at your command, sir," Ensign Fitzgerald confirmed.

Al-Hassin saw several lateral laser weapons along the starboard length of the alien vessel begin to charge up, similar to the massive beam weapon at the fore of the ships, but on a smaller scale. The moment the fleet carrier drew alongside the alien ship, Al-Hassin ordered Scipio to open fire. "Try to target their lateral weapons as much as you can," the admiral added, casting nervous glances at the charging laser weapons.

Scipio made good on Al-Hassin's orders, opening fire with the _Blood and Iron's_ integrated plasma turrets. Al-Hassin switched the viewscreen to side view, showing the plasma bolts from the turrets rushing through space and into the hull of the enemy ship. The plasma burned through the armor, penetrating it much easier than archer missiles normally would. However, it still took a lot longer to breach the hull of this ship than it would an Insurrectionist or even an unshielded Sangheili vessel. Whatever armor these alien ships were made of, it was extremely tough.

Many of the lateral laser cannons on the alien ship were blasted to Hell as Scipio took selective aim with the plasma turrets. The fleet carrier made it about a third of the way along the length of the conical alien ship before the plasma turrets ceased fire.

"Plasma offline, sir," Ensign Fitzgerald reported, "It needs to recharge."

That was the drawback of the inferior UNSC-grade naval plasma turrets; UNSC ships did not yet run on plasma—though the Research and Development jockeys were well on the way to discovering how—so the turrets fitted onto the _Blood and Iron_ could only fire for a short time before they needed to recharge.

"Sir, MAC cannon is at full charge," Fitzgerald reported.

"Sink a shot into their fore," Al-Hassin ordered, "That should destroy their energy beam projector and spin them around for…" Al-Hassin consulted the TACMAP onto the mini-console set next to his command chair, "…for the _Johannesburg_ to finish off. Change of plan; tell the _Southern Pride_ to stand by, we may not need her just yet. Mr. Rush; contact the _Johannesburg_ and tell them to ready their MAC cannon to fire at my command. Scipio, I'm going to need you with me on this one. When the alien ship begins to spin about from the force of our shot, I'll need you to form an adequate firing solution for the _Johannesburg_."

"Aye, sir," three voices—two Human, the third artificial—chorused.

The _Blood and Iron_ gave another shudder as its forward MAC cannon fired. Keeping with Al-Hassin's orders, Ensign Fitzgerald's firing solution sent the MAC shot right into the very front of the alien ship, actually shearing off the point of the cone structure. The alien ship itself, apart from its extreme fore, was unharmed, save for the severely weakened sections of armor in their starboard side, courtesy of the _Blood and Iron's_ plasma turrets.

The force of the MAC shot sent the fore of the alien ship hurtling away from the _Blood and Iron_ and towards the UNSC _Johannesburg_, a destroyer which had been moving on a steady vector on the opposite side of the ship. The fore of the alien vessel eventually pointed right at the _Johannesburg_, and then continued on its path, presenting the vulnerable starboard armor to the UNSC destroyer.

The _Johannesburg_ had come about to aim their MAC cannon at the alien vessel in the process. "_Now_, Scipio, send their AI their firing solution!" Al-Hassin ordered his shipboard smart AI.

"Done," Scipio reported a split-second later.

As the bridge crew of the fleet carrier watched through the viewscreen, the _Johannesburg_ came about and fired its MAC cannon. The depleted uranium slug crashed into the alien vessel's plasma-weakened armor and punched right through, gutting the alien ship. The slug tore its way out of the alien ship near the engines. The ship itself listed heavily, spinning out of control even more so than before. Gouts of flame spurted from the holes in the ship's hull for several seconds, smaller explosions brewing up all over the rest of the structure until the whole ship exploded in a brilliant conflagration of white, yellow, and deeper, cooler orange.

"Give me a sit-rep, Number One," Al-Hassin said to Commander Tomlinson.

The exec performed a quick sensor sweep through the area. "Sir, the aliens have two ships left—scratch that, the _Renaissance_ has just confirmed a fifth kill. There's only one hostile left…casualty figures coming in now…we've lost six vessels. The _Hamunaptra_, the _Mississippi, _the _Bloody Sunday_, the _Black Widow_, and the _Saint Elmo's Fire_ have all reported serious or critical damage and will not be able to fight until repairs are completed."

Al-Hassin let out a weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Eleven ships…eleven of our own ships for five of theirs?" the admiral's voice sounded as weary as he looked. Truth be told, he was shaken to his core. These new aliens obviously had superior technology to his Fleet. Already, he had traded five enemy ships for over half that number of his own. His Fleet was slowly being bled dry. "This is just like the Goddamned Great War all over again…" Al-Hassin growled.

The bridge crew remained silent. There was nothing for them to say.

"Contact all ships, restore our previous defense around Elpis," Al-Hassin ordered. "Prepare for the next enemy attack."

"Admiral," Scipio chimed in, "Not to be rude, but the odds of victory in a future ship-to-ship engagement, taking into account the new strength of the forces arrayed against us counterbalanced by the understrength of our own fleet, are painfully slim; I calculate a-"

Al-Hassin held up a hand, quelling the holographic centurion. "I don't want to hear it, Scipio," the admiral sighed. "If we go down, then we'll go down swinging."


	58. Chapter 57: Turn for the Worse

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Turn for the Worse

**1644 hours, November 24, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Mount Araquiel, Black Hills**

Tyrone-G083 squinted through the rain, trying to spot the Insurrectionist soldiers which were advancing once more up the southern approach to the UNSC lines on Mount Araquiel. "Nothing on the motion trackers," the dark-skinned Spartan-III murmured. He lowered the field glasses and paused to allow himself a quick yawn before peering back through, trying to spot something, _anything_ through the misty veil of rain.

"They're definitely out there…" Randall-G307 said. The other Spartan let out an audible yawn and sat up, brushing the mud from the bottom of the trench, which he and his comrades were sleeping in, off of his armor. "It's been quiet on this rock for too long; the Rebs haven't attacked us yet all day. Something is up."

"Are Moira and Hamid awake yet?" Tyrone asked.

"No," Randall shrugged, "Might as well let them sleep for now; there's no sign of any activity around here."

"Yet…" Tyrone murmured again, returning his ever-vigilant gaze to the no-man's-land beyond the UNSC lines on Mount Araquiel. The rain which had been pouring over the west coast of the Alsace landmass on Sigma Octanus IV for the past week or so, and it showed no signs of letting up. The ground had since been turned into a soft, muddy nightmare. Dragons would get mired in the ground every now and then. The bottoms of the UNSC trenches were basically glorified streams. The trenches on Mount Araquiel were not as bad as the ones in some of the other areas of the Black Hills front line; the water naturally drained down the slopes, leaving the trenches muddy, but not as miniature rivers. Other areas were not so lucky; a few marines had even come down with trench-foot.

The Spartans, being completely encased in a MJOLNIR power armor shell, did not have that problem. For the past few days, Tyrone, Randall, Moira, and Hamid had all been fighting along the lines on the southern slopes of Mount Araquiel. Today, however, they had been diverted to the southeastern defenses—the center of the line. There was another group of Spartans stationed somewhere nearby, but Tyrone had not yet had the chance to see them. Maybe today he would.

"So…" Tyrone sighed, tired of sitting and watching in silence. "What have you got to go back to when this is all over?"

Randall shrugged. "Nothing, really…I'm considering staying in the UNSC this time around."

"That so?" Tyrone contained his initial shock at his old comrade's confession. "Mind telling me why?"

Randall shrugged again, searching for the right words. He leaned up against the side of the trench. "I don't know, it's just…well…we—you, me, others like us—we don't fit into normal everyday life."

Tyrone remained silent, interested in what Randall had to say.

"I mean…well, think about it," Randall continued, "We're killers. No better way of putting it. You can say we were created for the greater good of Humanity, you can say that we were created to serve our nation…ultimately, when you boil down all the bullshit to see the core of truth, we were created for one task, and one task only; killing. The Covenant just so happened to be the enemy at the time. We were destined for battlefields and killing grounds, not for homes in the country. Face it; we don't belong in any world. Except for this one," Randall gestured all around him, meaning the entire battle.

"What about-"

Randall held up an armored hand, quelling Tyrone mid-speech, already knowing what he was about to say. "Sam and Alex were lucky. They're flukes. I remember them doing their…well, doing whatever they did together back on Onyx, and I remember thinking how they would soon probably be torn apart. Thank God I was wrong—don't mistake me—but what really set them apart from any of the other 'close friends' who had been in our company was that they _both_ survived the war. They were able to settle down not only because they truly loved each other, but because they were both Spartans. Plus, having a kid changes everything. When you think about it, no Spartan would ever be able to settle down and live out the rest of their life with a normal person. We're a completely different species, no matter how much we do not want to consider ourselves so."

Tyrone stayed quiet for another few minutes, letting those words sink in. He gave a shrug of his own and turned back to the southeastern approaches. "Well, I can understand where you're coming from. Me, personally, I've gotten myself a nice, quiet life in Florida on Earth. I was running a garage with an old AI friend of mine…and I liked it. I was content. You don't need love to find peace with yourself. That's the thing _all_ Spartans deserve; peace. We may not belong in it, but it's what we deserve."

Before Randall could answer, Tyrone stiffened suddenly, pressing a hand to his ear as an alert sounded through his COM system. "Perimeter motion detectors have been tripped," Tyrone said, "Something's on the move down there."

Randall got to his feet and gently shook the sleeping Spartan next to him awake. "Moira!" he called out to her as she stirred, "Up and at it; we're gonna have company real soon."

Moira-G298 yawned loudly, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "Can we ask them to come back in another day?" she grumbled.

Tyrone shook his head. "They haven't been too interested in talking to us these past few days."

Moira rolled over and nudged the fourth Spartan, Hamid-G156, awake as well. That done, she hopped to her feet, grabbing her BR55 and recounting her ammunition clips. "I'm good to go."

"You good, Hamid?" Randall asked.

Hamid gave a quick thumbs up, climbing to his feet as well. That was customary from Hamid; he rarely ever spoke.

Marines made their way down the trench, taking up positions in the area where the Spartans had been on watch. "We'll take it from here," a grizzled veteran sergeant said to the Spartans.

"On me," Tyrone said, climbing up out of the trench. Though there was no official squad-based organization for the Spartans fighting on the surface of Sigma Octanus IV, Tyrone took de facto control of the other three Spartans who had been fighting with him ever since his return from the jungles southeast of Côte d'Azur. Of those four Spartans, Tyrone was the only one who had been a Spartan team leader during the Great War, so he was the logical choice for a leader.

A shrill whistling noise filled the air. Insurrectionist artillery. "Take cover!" Tyrone shouted at the top of his lungs, diving into a nearby foxhole. The Spartans all dove into different foxholes; if one got hit, it wouldn't wipe them all out.

Tyrone wasn't even the least bit scared. Well, he certainly did not want to get hit, but the Insurrectionist had shelled the UNSC lines so many times that the shaking of the earth, the omnipresent roaring of the shells and the almighty explosions had subsided into a macabre routine.

The barrage subsided after roughly three minutes or so. The rain continued, squelching the fires and smoke rising up from the latest artillery. Nature endured and kept right on going, regardless of what the Insurrectionists threw at the UNSC.

The lower-pitched rushing noise of UNSC counterbattery-fire followed right after, hopefully paying the Insurrectionists back in kind. A few cries for corpsmen were heard here and there up and down the lines. Nothing out of the ordinary. Tyrone wanted to get moving right away, though; an artillery barrage usually always preceded another attack.

"Motion sensors are going off," Moira murmured.

Tyrone led his three Spartans to the weakest part of the lines on the southeastern slopes of Mount Araquiel; a small stretch of several hundred meters, defended by only a single trench. The ground in this area had been too rocky to effectively create good cover, so Tyrone had volunteered ahead of time to man that stretch himself with his Spartans. When he got there, he was only mildly surprised to find three more Spartans already there, waiting for the Insurrectionists to come within range.

Two of the Spartans, James-G173 and Chase-G019, Tyrone already knew were here, and he recognized them immediately. Tyrone frowned at the third Spartan and called up the friend/foe identifier in his HUD. "_Sam?!_" he nearly gasped.

Sam-G113 swiped two fingers across her faceplate in a wide Spartan smile. "So _this_ is where they ended up sending you," the red-haired Spartan muttered, looking around herself. "Not much of a vacation."

Tyrone would normally have run up and given her a bear hug, but the fact that they were wearing MJOLNIR complicated that. Instead, he settled for a good thump on the back of her shoulder. He looked around past and down the trenches, looking for a fourth Spartan. Not seeing one, he frowned and said to Sam, "Where's-"

"Oh, he's probably still up in those ridges somewhere," Sam gestured to the high crags and cliffs further on up the mountain. "He hasn't had a chance to come down yet."

"Excuse me, if we're done with the tearful reunion, we have a line which needs holding," Randall interrupted, gesturing down southeast.

"Take up standard defensive positions," Tyrone ordered, getting his head back into the game. "What do we have in the way of ammunition and secondary weapons?"

James-G173 cleared his throat and jerked his head over to a cluster of foxholes in the center of the Spartans' part of the line. "We have a small stockpile of Jackhammer rockets in those foxholes. We've repelled two or three armored attacks with them, but we're beginning to run short. There's also a heavy machinegun emplacement near the left reaches of our line; that's always where the Rebs attack the hardest—the right-hand approach is rockier and steeper."

"Alright…" Tyrone gave a satisfied nod. He eyed James, who had also been a team leader during the Great War. His original team, Team Scimitar, had been wiped out in the Ural Mountains during the op which uncovered the Forerunner Cartographer facility which had revealed the location of the Portal to Installation 00. For the rest of the battle on Earth he had taken command of Team Stiletto, which had lost its leader in the very same op. He had been through a lot. Because he was another Spartan who had been a team leader, Tyrone could not automatically take command of the defense. He had to first deal with any potential competition. "I'm assuming tactical command of this defense, James; do you have any objections?"

"Hey," James spread out both hands in mock surrender, "I'm yours to manipulate. You were better at it than I was, anyhow."

"No," Tyrone shook his head fervently, "No, I was just luckier. There's a huge difference."

James's only response was a grunt, but he nevertheless turned on his heel and headed off to the left end of the single trench covering the Spartans' portion of the line. "I'll handle the heavy MG!" he hollered over.

Tyrone gave him a quick thumbs-up. He turned back to the other Spartans assembled and sent them off as well. "Hamid; you were Team Claymore's demo-specialist, right?"

Hamid's only reply was a simple, silent nod.

"Good," Tyrone nodded back, not remembering the last time he had actually heard Hamid speak. "Get over to the foxhole with the Jackhammer stockpile. Use those rockets sparingly; they don't grow on trees here."

Hamid's acknowledgement light winked green and he quickly hurried off to his assigned post.

"The rest of you, into the trench," Tyrone directed, "Try to space yourselves out as evenly as possible. We have a good amount of ground to cover and not a lot of us to cover it."

"Incoming!" Chase cried out suddenly. The other Spartans hit the dirt just as fast as he had, and not a moment too soon. A volley of what sounded like high-explosive tank shells sailed over their heads, exploding several hundred meters up the slope.

"Into the trench! Into the trench!" Tyrone bellowed, picking up his M90 vaulting himself over a fallen tree, falling down into the trench shoulder-first. He picked himself back up and threw himself against the forward side of the trench. He pulled his MA6A assault rifle from the magnetic weapons strip on his back, placing the M90 there in its stead. Tyrone preferred his shotgun to any other weapon—save a Gauss cannon—but when the battle called for longer-range fighting, he was more than competent with an assault rifle. He was no marksman, so it was always better to fill the air with more bullets than he would be able to with a BR55. The assault rifle was still accurate, and it fulfilled that task with flying colors.

He left marksmanship to the snipers.

Large, hulking shapes appeared through the mist some distance off down the slopes of Mount Araquiel. "Tanks!" the cry rose up all along the line as the marines spotted the figures as well. The Insurrectionists had arrayed their armor in one huge, long line, attacking all of the UNSC position at once. The shrouded silhouettes of soldiers in gray were clearly visible in between the shapes of the tanks, filling the gaps.

"Hold your fire until the infantry draws close," Tyrone ordered over the SQUADCOM channel which all of the Spartans in the trench were connected to. "Conserve your ammo as much as possible."

The Spartans in the trench stood at their stations, still as statues. Sam could see the advancing Insurrectionists visibly relax, seeing only one trench defending the approach to the summit of Mount Araquiel in front of them. All she felt was a small sense of pity for those soldiers who thought they were in for a cakewalk when they should have been contemplating whether they wanted an open or closed-casket funeral.

The line of Insurrectionist armor and infantry drew closer. The forces to the right lagged behind as they navigated the rougher slopes, falling behind their comrades on both sides. The steady clatter of weaponsfire erupted all over the UNSC line, filling the air with the sound of spitting death.

"Hamid, let them have it," Tyrone ordered finally. Hamid's acknowledgement light winked green again as he loaded the Jackhammer rocket launcher and fired, striking the nearest Insurrectionist tank. It took both of the Jackhammer rockets loaded in the launcher to tear through the frontal armor of the tank. The tank ground to a halt, brewing up in an oily cloud of fire and smoke. A hatch popped open and a man tumbled out of the tank, his clothes and skin both on fire.

Sam took careful aim with her battle rifle and put the man out of his misery. The other Insurrectionist soldiers nearby frantically beat the flames out, not realizing that the man was already dead.

James opened fire with the heavy MG, cutting a swathe through a section of the Insurrectionist soldiers. More infantry surged forward to take the places of those fallen.

"Grenades!" Tyrone shouted, pulling a fragmentation grenade from his belt strip, priming it, and lobbing it down the slopes of Mount Araquiel towards the oncoming Insurrectionists. Four more frag grenades sailed over the top of the trench towards the Insurrectionists as the others—save for Hamid and James—followed up on Tyrone's order.

The frag grenades all exploded just before they hit the ground, catching several enemy soldiers in their midsections. The results were not pretty.

Tyrone aimed down the sights of his assault rifle and squeezed off several controlled, concentrated bursts, aiming for clumps and groups of hostiles. Off to the side, Hamid fired off another two Jackhammer rockets. He fired at tanks which were diagonal to him, allowing him to hit the weaker side armor. This way, it only took one rocket to finish it. After both tubes were fired, two Insurrectionist tanks were reduced to useless, burning wrecks.

The Insurrectionist soldiers, now under heavy fire as the other Spartans opened up on them, would now take cover behind the wrecks, keeping up a steady stream of fire in the Spartans' direction.

Another pair of tanks brewed up, meeting their ends at the hands of Hamid and his Jackhammer.

Tyrone finished his clip and slammed another one in, resuming his fire. He paused in between targets, seeing a whole new wave of infantry swarming up the slopes of the mountain behind the original, now-shattered line of infantry and armor. It was not a line of reinforcements; it was a concentrated thrust, aimed right at the Spartans' trench. The weakest part of the lines on Mount Araquiel. At least it made sense.

A tiny feeling of unease wormed its way into Tyrone's gut as he saw how heavily the newcomers were armed. It seemed that at least _someone_ in the Insurrectionists' command structure had gotten intelligence on who was manning this trench. It gave Tyrone some small, macabre sense of satisfaction, knowing that the enemy considered him and his comrades dangerous enough to send in what appeared to be an entire battalion of heavily-armed soldiers against them. Still, he could have done all too well without the honor.

Most of the tanks had broken off by now. They had pumped shell after high-explosive shell into the foxholes where Hamid was holed up, but they had failed to flush out the Spartan. Just how Hamid was still alive was beyond the others, but they did not think heavily on it. After all, the impossible was the essence of a Spartan.

Two tanks, however, still pressed on. If they got much further, their machineguns would be able to keep the Spartans pinned down. That would be unacceptable.

"Sam, Chase; _go,_" Tyrone pointed at both of the indicated Spartans, and then waved his hand, palm out, at the two tanks. Both Spartans' acknowledgment lights flashed green and, without a moment's hesitation, they went over the top.

"Covering fire!" Tyrone thundered, firing at a group of Insurrectionists huddled behind a burning tank wreck and a fallen tree, keeping them suppressed. James did as much as he could with the heavy MG, although he had to regularly break off to dodge grenades or lob them back towards their owners to avoid becoming mincemeat.

Sam and Chase sprinted out away from the trench and down the mountainside, running and jumping in a wild zigzag pattern which significantly lowered their chances of being hit. Despite this, their energy shields flared more than once as they absorbed bullets which would have otherwise seriously wounded them.

Sam reached the tank on the right first, diving to the side to avoid the bow machinegun, and circling around to the back. She grabbed onto the rear of the tank and swung under, plastering herself to the Insurrectionist tank's underside. She balled her hand into a fist and struck the armored panels covering the engine systems, ripping them away. She then primed another frag grenade and shoved it as deep into the engines as it would go. The red-haired Spartan jumped clear of the tank and sprinted back towards the trench as fast as she could run.

Chase was doing likewise, having torn open the hatch of the second tank and dropped a grenade into the interior. If any of the crew survived the blast, they would be in no shape to move.

Sam's tank exploded right afterwards, propelling the Spartans forward.

Chase reached the trench first, leaping over the defenses and dropping down into the gash in the earth. Sam's shields gave out just as she reached the trench. Several rounds struck her in the back, denting her armor and causing light internal bleeding. She was thrown forward into the trench, falling flat on her face.

Sam lay still for a second, allowing her shields to recharge, before painfully getting back up to her feet.

"You alright?!" Tyrone shouted over as he engaged another group of soldiers emerging from their cover.

"I'll live," Sam murmured in reply.

Tyrone checked her over via the TEAMBIO just to make sure. No Spartan ever admitted to having an injury which could impede their ability to fight; sometimes it paid to be sure. Satisfied that Sam had not been dealt any life-threatening or crippling wounds, Tyrone returned his attention to the Insurrectionists.

The Insurrectionist battalion had reached the place where the hapless soldiers from the first assault wave were now hunkered down and simply brushed right by them. Tyrone could see their commissars shooting soldiers who did not join in the advance. To give the Insurrectionists some tiny measure of credit, they did not charge the Spartans' trench head-on in a Napoleonic-style line. They spaced out so that grenades or stray blasts would not be able to shred a whole group of them at any one time.

They did not advance at the same time, either. Soldiers sprinted forward sporadically, covered by comrades firing from behind while under cover. The closer soldiers would then provide covering fire for their comrades further back, allowing them to advance. This did not go flawlessly for them, not even close. The Spartans made them pay for every inch of ground they advanced over. However, the enemy had one thing the Spartans did not; sheer, raw numbers. No matter how many soldiers Tyrone killed, there always seemed to be two or three more who sprang forward to take their fallen comrades' places.

Tyrone switched to shredder rounds and kept up his fire. He concentrated on the semi-frequent clumps of soldiers who were foolish enough to bunch up, cutting them down as casually as a lumberjack would a small tree.

Though none of the Spartans really had a sense of time during the vicious firefight, their mission clocks—impervious to battlefield time—kept right on going. Tyrone, for the most part, ignored his clock, but he still glanced at it every once in a while. The first wave had attacked sometime around 1655 to 1700 hours. The clock was just passing 1815 hours. It had been over an hour, and still the Insurrectionists came at the trench like the tides of the ocean.

There was an explosion off to the left and the Spartans' heavy MG fell silent. Tyrone looked over and saw James sprawled out on the bottom of the trench, unconscious. TEAMBIO showed several broken ribs, a severe concussion, as well as a fair amount of internal bleeding. That must have been a stray mortar shot.

"G172 is down, I repeat; James is down," Tyrone said over the SQUADCOM.

Sam temporarily left her station and grabbed a canister of bio-foam from the ground, hurrying over to where James lay. She inserted the nozzle into one of the injection ports and filled the Spartan's abdominal cavity with the healing agent.

"He's as stable as he's going to be until he gets to an aid station!" Sam exclaimed.

"No time for that now; he'll have to hang in there!" Randall shouted back, adjusting his aim and taking down an Insurrectionist officer attempting to rally the now-chaotic charge into an organized assault.

Moira's acknowledgment light flashed amber suddenly. She was over at the right end of the trench. Tyrone snapped his gaze over to that area and—to his horror—saw Insurrectionist soldiers pouring into the trench right near where Moira was standing.

"Maintain your fire!" Tyrone shouted to the others. He broke off and bounded down through the trench to help Moira before she was swarmed. He dropped his MA6A and grabbed his M90, racking the pump and sliding a shell into the chamber. A group of three Insurrectionists turned and opened fire at him.

Tyrone's shields shimmered, absorbing the bullets. Tyrone's shotgun answered, sending a heavy eight-gauge shell into the chest of the nearest soldier. The man was thrown back by the force of the blast, taking down his two comrades. Tyrone's shotgun continued to reply to the Insurrectionists' fire. It answered eight more times, emptying the weapon's payload and leaving a pile of dead Magisterial Guardsmen.

Tyrone clipped his shotgun back onto the magnetic weapons strip and assumed an offensive stance, bending his knees and bringing his center of gravity closer to the ground.

The Insurrectionists paused for a brief second to acknowledge him; they had been preoccupied with Moira the whole time. From what Tyrone could see, Moira had retreated to the foxholes where Hamid was holed up, keeping the Insurrectionists down in the trench.

Tyrone put his hands together and a series of rippling pops were audible as he cracked his knuckles. The dark-skinned Spartan struck first, dealing the nearest man a blow to the neck. The man's head lolled to the side at an impossible angle and he dropped to the ground.

The others surrounding the man watched their comrade fall. Just like that, it was as if a critical line had been reached and crossed. The remaining soldiers charged Tyrone pretty much head-on. Tyrone smiled to himself; he wouldn't have it any other way.

The Spartan grabbed two men and brought their heads smashing together. They both connected with a sickening crunch and fell to the ground, twitching. Tyrone pivoted on a foot and snapped his other leg out in a crushing kick, catching another man in the chest. The Spartan winced for a second, hearing and feeling the man's chest cave in.

Tyrone spun, punched, chopped, kicked, and struck his way through the Insurrectionists, venting his fury at James's wounding on them. Hand-to-hand close combat was where Tyrone reigned supreme. The only one who had been more proficient at hand-to-hand had been Sam, mostly because she struck fast as lightning. Tyrone was not nearly as fast as Sam, but he was much stronger. The whole thing was a tradeoff.

A harsh order was shouted from somewhere further down the mountain and the surviving Insurrectionists managed to break off, clearing out of the trench and fleeing down the slopes, eventually vanishing into the mist.

An eerie silence descended over the line. "What the hell just happened…?" Randall murmured over the SQUADCOM.

Tyrone could pick up bits and pieces of chatter coming from the marines' positions on the rest of Mount Araquiel. It seemed the Insurrectionists were withdrawing everywhere else as well.

"Squad, regroup and check your ammo," Tyrone ordered over the COM, hurrying back to his position in the trench. "If any of you have problems, now's the time to solve 'em!"

Hamid quickly organized the remaining rockets he had left and sat still, waiting for whatever was coming next.

Tyrone slotted a new handful of shells into his M90, racking the pump and putting it back on his back. He then picked his MA6A back up and reloaded that as well, grabbing a few extra clips of ammunition from a nearby crate.

All the other Spartans were doing likewise. They all knew that the attack was not over. Insurrectionists never ran away like that, especially not when they were winning. Tyrone's uneasy feeling from much earlier returned, this time much more pronounced. This unnerved him; even during the Great War, he had never felt like this. Well, that wasn't entirely true; the only time he truly felt fear was during the Battle of Voi, when the Flood attacked. What he was feeling now was nowhere near as bad as that raw terror he had felt in Voi when he was forced to watch marines fall and disappear under the waves and waves of infection forms, but it was more than he had felt ever since.

Battle held its own personal set of horrors, an ugly side comprised of many facets which don't even need mentioning. In battle, a soldier felt fear. Fear of the enemy, fear for his comrades, fear for his own life. What made a soldier a soldier was the ability to control that fear, to turn it into energy, motivation. All soldiers felt fear in battle, but it was a different kind of fear than terror; battlefield fear brought with it a calm, indifferent sense of acceptance. A soldier knew that his chances of survival were out of his hands. He knew that the only thing he could do was take as many of the enemy down with him before he himself went down.

Tyrone knew that feeling well, but it was nothing compared to uncertainty. When the Insurrectionists withdrew suddenly, that was so unlike their usual behavior that it threw the Spartans into an entirely new ballpark; the unknown.

"Keep your eyes wide, Spartans!" Tyrone exclaimed, keeping a firm gaze through the rain and mist in front of the trench down the slopes of the mountain. Even though the Insurrectionists had withdrawn, the attack was not over. All of the Spartans could feel it; something else was coming.

"Perimeter motion sensors have been tripped again!" Moira exclaimed.

"Weapons at the ready!" Tyrone bellowed.

COM chatter from the surrounding units came through in short, static-filled bursts. It was pandemonium. Marines were shouting, orders were being relayed. Surprise and shock were clearly evident in their voices. Exclamations of "_What the hell are those things?!_" or "_Holy shit, they're swarming our left flank!_" were screamed over the universal COM channel, interspersed with dozens of other transmissions of a similar nature.

"Movement in the trees!" Sam warned.

There was a mechanical clanking sound, accompanied by something else, a buzzing, whirring noise…as if something were charging up.

Instinct saved Tyrone-G083's life. Before the dark-skinned Spartan even knew it, he was facedown in the mud as a blinding bolt of sizzling red energy tore through the top of the trench where his head and shoulders had been a millisecond previously.

"What the-"

"Hostile contacts all over the southeast approach!" Chase shouted, "Classification: unknown!"

"Yeah, I would never have guessed!" Tyrone snapped, getting back to his feet and brushing himself off. He retrieved his MA6A and took his place back on the front of the trench.

A shape became apparent in the mist, emerging from the thick of the trees further on down the mountain. It was clearly a vehicle, alien in shape. It had some sort of energy anti-grav system set in its underbelly which provided its forward propulsion. Its chassis was a ruddy brown color, built like a hemisphere—round on all sides, flat on the bottom. A large weapon was set back into the front of the hemisphere-shaped vehicle, a short barrel of some sorts.

The end of that barrel glowed red as it seemed to charge up, growing brighter and brighter until it became a blinding white. It then released the pent-up energy, firing a roiling red bolt of energy—identical to the one which had nearly turned Tyrone into a shish-kebab—into the trench off to the left.

More of those tank-like vehicles appeared, advancing towards the trench. Figures could be seen in between them, but one glance told the Spartans that they were nothing remotely close to Human.

They were reptilian in appearance, looking like giant, oversized lizards. They had greenish, scaly skin and longer, elongated heads—similar to those of the Kig-Yar. Though they were not even close to being Human, they were somewhat humanoid. They walked on two legs, had arms and a torso, but actually calling them outright _humanoid_ would be too big a stretch. Oh, and they were easily twenty feet tall. They jabbered to each other in a deep, guttural language. Several of them turned towards the Spartans' trench and opened their mouths wide, letting off thick, animalistic roars.

"What the hell _are_ those things?!" Randall exclaimed, echoing the panicking marines over the universal COM channel.

Tyrone answered the question with a simple reply which tied up any and all loose ends. "Enemies," he said, sliding a new clip into his assault rifle.

The alien vehicles opened fire, sending more heavy laser bolts slamming into the trench defenses, sending them flying. The trench was, piece-by-piece, being torn apart.

Two smoke trails appeared as an equivalent number of rockets flew down the slopes and into two of the alien vehicles which behaved as tanks. The two alien tanks immediately blew apart in a blinding, fiery haze. Whatever they were made out of, it wasn't all that tough if all it took was a single Jackhammer rocket to bring one down.

The Spartans sure as hell weren't complaining. Tyrone gave the order to open fire. The five Spartans in the trench aimed their weapons and fired at the advancing aliens as Hamid labored to thin the ranks of their armor.

Tyrone emptied a whole clip into one of the leading aliens. The shredder rounds did damage to the creature, but it kept right on going as if it had been merely slapped. The lizard-like aliens wore some sort of brownish-red battle armor. That armor was able to take a good amount of punishment, but it didn't take much to penetrate it. The problem was the aliens' skin underneath. Their hide was tough, even tougher than those of the Jiralhanae, who—during the Great War—had been able to shrug off shotgun shells.

However tough they were, they still were not invincible. Tyrone bared his teeth in a savage, triumphant grin as the first alien fell, its chest torn open by the force of his shredder rounds.

Several more of the aliens fell, their skulls blown open by more precise shots from the other Spartans' BR55s. Randall took up James's spot at the heavy MG emplacement and opened fire with that. The heavy rounds were spat out of the heavy MG's rotating barrels at high enough speed to tear right into those aliens, despite their tough hides. What made that weapon so vital was its ability to throw much more lead through the air than a normal weapon; that took the targeted aliens down much faster.

The Spartans each acquired a new target and set about taking them down.

The aliens began to return fire. They were all armed with giant weapons. They were rifles and appeared to be energy-based; they all fired similar bolts of energy like their light tanks had, though on a smaller scale. Several bolts found their mark on Tyrone's chest and he was jerked back several feet by the force of the shots. His energy shield indicator dropped dangerously low and he was forced to crouch down to allow it to recharge.

There was another series of explosions off down by the heavy gun. Randall could be seen flying through the air, slamming back into the other wall of the trench. The other Spartan gave a low groan of pain, but nevertheless picked himself up and manned the MG once more, keeping up the stream of fire.

Sam loaded another clip into her BR55 and shifted her aim to an alien taking potshots at Hamid, sending a three-round burst into the alien's helm. The piece of armor covering the alien's head was mangled, but it held firm. Two more bursts knocked it clean off, and an additional three ripped through the alien's skull. Fifteen shots in all; nearly half a mag.

Unlike the Insurrectionists, this assault force of aliens did not seem to be limitless; there were a clearly finite amount of the reptilian creatures assaulting the Spartans' trench, finite meaning only a few dozen. With the aliens' physiology and resilience to weaponsfire, it might as well have been a thousand.

Sam moved her aim to another alien and spent the rest of her current mag taking it down.

Another pair of alien tanks brewed up as Hamid fired his Jackhammer again. This cycle went on for about ten minutes; Hamid systematically destroying two tanks at a time while the others did their utmost to keep the aliens away from the trench. It only lasted for ten minutes, however. Ten minutes later, the alien tanks broke off their attack. They divided into two groups, both heading off in either direction to the sides, most likely to help their comrades in another part of the Black Hills.

They did this because the alien infantry had finally managed to reach the trench. One of the reptilian creatures landed in the trench next to Tyrone with a resounding _thud_. Its lips drew back in a savage snarl, revealing rows of glistening, pointed teeth.

Tyrone emptied the rest of his mag into the creature's stomach. Before he could deal any significant damage, the alien gave a growl of anger and pain. It grabbed the barrel of the MA6A assault rifle and broke it off with a powerful twist. The rifle was torn out of Tyrone's grasp.

The alien seized Tyrone by the throat and began to squeeze. The Spartan gasped, his breath suddenly cut off. Tyrone grabbed the alien's hands and tried to break the grip, but it was stronger than even he could handle. The Spartan lashed out with his feet and relentlessly kicked the alien in the stomach and groin in an attempt to get it to break off its onslaught. He might as well have been hitting the creature with a wet spaghetti; it didn't even acknowledge the Spartan's efforts.

Tyrone's legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees. His heart was pounding away like a jackhammer, his vision was fading, and he was slipping into unconsciousness from oxygen deprivation. His bio read-out was flashing red. Out of the very corners of his fading vision, he could see Sam turn in his direction, but another two aliens leaped into the trench between them. Tyrone was alone.

Tyrone's lungs were on fire. The sounds of battle faded, leaving only silence. His heartbeat began to slow. He felt his eyes closing, and then…_air_.

Sweet, blessed oxygen made its way down Tyrone's throat and he inhaled deeply, falling face-down on the ground and gasping heavily, regaining his breath.

The alien who had nearly strangled him was lying on its side, a smoking hole right where its left eye used to be. That was the work of a depleted uranium-tipped sniper round. Only a sniper of incredible skill could have dropped the alien in that fashion from a great distance. Tyrone recognized that handiwork and cracked a small smile, flicking his eyes up to the crags and cliffs further up the mountain.

There was no time for celebration, though. Tyrone grabbed his M90 and got to his feet. He delivered a crushing blow to an alien whose weaker back armor was turned to him. The alien's spine must have snapped, for the towering creature let out a pained roar and pitched forward to the ground, but was unable to move. Tyrone emptied a shell into the back of its head, ending its misery.

An alien up ahead fell, an armored hand sticking right through the back of its neck and through the front of its throat. When it hit the ground, Sam pulled her hand out, reaching down to her belt strip and pulling out her combat knife. She caught sight of Tyrone and swiped two fingers across her faceplate in a Spartan smile.

Tyrone returned the gesture and turned on his heel, dodging another alien's blow. The alien's rifle crashed into the ground, missing Tyrone completely. Tyrone turned back just as the alien pulled its weapon out of the ground and fired his shotgun, sending the eight-gauge shell into the alien's throat. He had learned not to aim for the chest or thicker areas; the aliens' armor and skin was weakest at their neck and the small of their back. The shell ripped into the alien's throat, sending blood and tissue flying everywhere. The alien collapsed to the ground, convulsing. Tyrone left it; he would need all of his shells for its friends. The Spartan racked the pump and faced the alien behind the most recently-defeated one.

This alien snarled, regarding Tyrone like something less than excrement. It fired off a shot from its rifle, catching Tyrone full on in the chest.

The Spartan staggered back, his energy shields shimmering as they soaked up the laser shot. He quickly recovered and squeezed off a shot at the alien. The reptilian creature did not even falter as the shell tore into its chest armor. It brought its rifle crushing down on the Spartan.

Tyrone met the blow with his shotgun, holding it quarterstaff-style, taking the alien's rifle right in the middle. His muscles—unseen under the MJOLNIR—bulged, attempting to stave off the alien's attack. The alien's strength was much greater than the Spartan's however, and bit by bit it drove Tyrone back.

Tyrone broke off and leaped to the side, racking the pump again and firing another shell right into the alien's side. The alien hissed in pain and whipped around again to face Tyrone, but the Spartan wasn't there. Tyrone barrel-rolled through the alien's legs and, as he got to his feet, spun around and quickly scaled the alien's back. He managed to hook an arm around its neck and squeezed, cutting off the alien's airflow.

The alien gave a series of angry, surprised grunts and growls, jumping all over the place, trying to shake the Spartan off. Finally, it managed to grab Tyrone by the other arm, flinging the Spartan over its shoulder and slamming him into the ground. Tyrone's energy shields fizzled out, spent by the impact. The alien reached down and picked the Spartan up by the neck.

_Not again_… Tyrone swore under his breath. The alien's grip did not constrict however; it probably intended to simply snap the Spartan's neck and be done with it. It drew the Spartan close, scrutinizing it with a critical eye. It had fought Humans, but this Human was much different than all of the others. The alien seemed to shrug, its grip tightening.

It was the last thing it ever did in this life.

Tyrone drove the blade of his combat knife home, thrusting it through the alien's eye and back into its brain. The alien fell without another sound, surprise still etched on its face.

The dark-skinned Spartan picked his shotgun back up and got to it. For the next few minutes, he killed around five or so more aliens before a pained cry came over the SQUADCOM.

Tyrone's gaze snapped over to Hamid's foxholes. Three aliens had jumped the Spartan. Hamid's combat knife flashed as it twirled around his fingers. One alien fell, its throat slashed and its life essence flowing out in a smooth river.

The other two aliens attacked at the same time, seizing the Spartan's arms, holding him aloft.

"Hamid!" Tyrone exclaimed, making his way through the trench towards his imperiled comrade.

A group of at least six aliens swept in from the right flank, over where the marines were supposed to be fighting. They cackled and growled, surrounding the struggling Spartan, obscuring him from view.

Tyrone tried to hop out of what remained of the trench, but three more aliens advancing up the slopes leaped in front of him, blocking his way. He dropped one with a well-aimed shot to the neck, pivoted and dropped the second in the exact same fashion. The third lunged forward, but Tyrone leaped to the side, desperation to reach his comrade heightening his reflexes. The alien whipped around and fired at Tyrone, but missed.

The Spartan unsheathed his knife again and threw it, striking the alien right in the eye. Tyrone pushed past the now-departed creature, not bothering to retrieve his knife, and leaped over a pile of alien corpses just in time to see the group of aliens close in.

The SQUADCOM crackled. A voice, haggard and raspy, but at the same time calm and peaceful, came over the channel. "It's been an honor, Spartans," Hamid spoke for the last time.

The aliens all closed in on the Spartan and struck. On the TEAMBIO, Hamid's vital signs flat-lined. The group of aliens were then engulfed in a large, white explosion as Hamid's fusion pack which powered his MJOLNIR detonated, destroying the armor and giving the Spartan as much of a funeral as he would ever receive. When the light cleared, there was nothing left.

Tyrone turned right back on his heel, biting back the shock of losing another teammate forever and forcing his churning emotions down into a dark place in his mind. He bent down and, with an ugly squelch, pulled his knife out of the eye of the alien he had most recently killed, calmly wiping the blood off of his blade and sheathing it. He grabbed his shotgun and let out a raw-throated yell, charging the nearest alien—which in turn was sprinting towards Sam—and knocking it down with a well-placed kick to the back. As it tried to pick itself back up, he raised his armored boot and brought it crashing down on the alien's skull. Bits of bone and brain matter were sprayed everywhere.

By now, the trench was mostly gone; the damage the alien light tanks had done had pretty much carved the earthen defense out. The Spartans were now fighting on open ground. Randall wielded the heavy MG in his arms, taking down alien after alien with its heavy payload and high rate of fire.

Sam had long ago abandoned her BR55 in the melee. Instead, she jumped from alien to alien, her combat knife flashing as it slashed across necks, plunged into eyes, stabbed up through mouths. She wielded it like a drum major would a baton, flourishing it with an almost artistic grace.

Moira was back-to-back with Randall, using a fallen alien's dropped energy weapon. Those weapons did more to bring their owners down than UNSC lead, making her a good asset to Randall as she protected his vulnerable back.

Though the Spartans did not notice it, as time dragged on they slowly advanced further and further down the slopes of Mount Araquiel, actually driving the aliens back with their ferocity. The Spartans fought five times as hard, fueled by their fury at the loss of Hamid.

Tyrone lost all sense of time. All that existed was his shotgun, his knife, and the next unlucky alien to be caught in front of him. He lost track of how many he killed. He was covered in blood, and he reveled in it.

He fired shell after shell after shell, ripping into the aliens. A new wave of reinforcements for the aliens had arrived, but no one had noticed. There was simply more life to extinguish than there had been a moment before, nothing more.

Tyrone executed a wounded alien and looked up for his next target when he was suddenly snapped out of his bloodlust by a sharp rap to the back of his head. He whipped around and was surprised to see how far away they had fought from the trench.

A Spartan stood behind him. He was shorter than Tyrone and had a sniper rifle on his back. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" the sniper shouted.

Tyrone recognized that voice anywhere. "Alex?! Alex, what are you doing down here; you should be up-"

"Mount Araquiel has fallen!" Alex screamed, gesticulating madly, "The aliens have breached the Black Hills! The front line has completely collapsed; everything and everyone's pulling back to Delta Line further back in the hills! You are about to be surrounded; what the hell are you still doing here?! You should have retreated half an hour ago!"

Tyrone swore, the severity of the situation dawning on him. He turned back to his comrades. "Fall back!" he shouted over the SQUADCOM, "Everyone fall back!"

Green acknowledgment lights flashed all around as the Spartans broke off obediently, withdrawing slowly up the slope. A few minutes later, they reached the trench. Randall grabbed James, dropping the heavy MG.

The reptilian aliens were attacking from both sides now, as well as the rear, as they streamed in from the lines which they had captured from the marines. More alien tanks appeared through the mist and rain off to the right. The foremost one's barrel turned slightly, trying to acquire a new target.

Chase happened to be the one running across its line of fire, hurrying after Randall and Moira while Sam, Alex, and Tyrone brought up the rear.

A burst of laser-fire hit him in the legs and he stumbled, falling front-first into the ground. Sam, who was closest, moved to help him up.

The alien tank, its energy weapon fully charged, fired.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. The roiling red bolt slammed into the ground several feet away from Chase and the blinding explosion followed, engulfing him and Sam.

Alex's breath caught in his throat. "_No_…" he whispered, soft enough that Tyrone had to strain to hear him.

The light from the explosion cleared. Tyrone took one look at Chase and did not even consult TEAMBIO to check on him. He was gone.

Sam had only taken the edge of the explosion. She actually managed to pick herself back up and managed to wave to her two former teammates when three laser shots from an alien rifle caught her dead-on in the upper chest. Her shields had been knocked out by the tank shot, so the laser bolts seared right through her armor and into the flesh beneath.

Samantha-G113 fell.

Tyrone heard Alex scream, an awful, demented sound he hadn't thought his friend capable of making.

The blue-eyed Spartan sprinted towards his wife's body, but Tyrone caught hold of him. "Alex!" he shouted, fighting back his own emotions, "Alex, she's gone! Killing yourself over her body won't-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Alex surprised Tyrone with the raw anger in his voice, "She can't die! She _won't_ die!"

Tyrone sighed to himself and raised his hand, intending to knock Alex unconscious and carry him back himself, when his TEAMBIO came up, sensing something. He saw Sam's readout.

There was a heartbeat. Faint, irregular, nearly non-existent, but _there_…

* * *

The pelican came roaring into the command perimeter situated around the Spire around 1945 hours. The marines stationed there stirred when Spartans clambered out of the dropship. They stirred even more when they saw that two of the Spartans were motionless, slung over their teammates' shoulders like potato sacks.

Alex held his wife in his arms in front of him, striding across the grounds and straight over to the central aid station where the surgeons who could handle the worst cases were located. He did not even brush the flap of the large tent aside; he walked right through, knocking the supporting pole at the entrance aside.

"I need a doctor!" the blue-eyed Spartan shouted.

A tall, thin man with cropped blond hair and a pencil mustache emerged from another section of the tent. He wore a surgeon's smock which was sullied with blood and pieces of other things that came out of Human bodies. He took one look at Sam and paled considerably. "I've been getting cases with those laser burns and lacerations all evening," the surgeon exclaimed, leading Alex into another section of the tent, gesturing for another medic to tend to James.

Alex got right to the point. "How bad?"

The doctor entered a section of the tent which was obviously the OR; three metal tables with restraints occupied the room's center and all sorts of medical equipment lined the sides. Two technicians were standing on deck, ready to put that equipment to use when needed.

The surgeon took one look at Sam and shrugged. "These laser burns are nasty wherever they hit…frankly, I don't know if she'll make it. I highly doubt it, actually; I've seen men die from lighter wounds than this," he gestured to the three still-smoking holes in Sam's chest, "She's a Spartan; if she manages to hold on, that'll probably be the only reason why. If you want her to live, I would suggest waiting outside; I cannot work with non-medical personnel in here. Hope for the best, but don't expect it. She's in God's hands more than mine, right now."


	59. Chapter 58: Deus Ex Machina

**_Author's Note_**

_Well, Purple Rookie, this one's for you!

* * *

_

Chapter Fifty-Eight: Deus Ex Machina

**0000 hours, November 28, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Three Days Later)  
Elpis, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC **_**Blood and Iron**_

The flagship of the UNSC Seventh Fleet was bordering on all-out pandemonium. Crewmen all reported to their respective battle stations all over the ship, fighter pilots hurried into their longswords, technicians scrabbled to fix damages and boost efficiency on the vehicles, engineers hurried to make as many last-minute repairs to the reactor as possible.

Above everything was the bridge, the one medium of peace in the fleet carrier, or as close to peace as was possible on the ship. It was the one place where panic and chaos could not afford to exist. Oh, the bridge officers were feeling every bit as scared and panicked as the rest of the regular crew throughout the _Blood and Iron_, but they did not let it show. They followed their orders to the letter, keeping their emotions hidden.

At the centre of all that was Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin. He was standing towards the front of the bridge, off of his command platform, peering at the image projected through the viewscreen. He could no longer sit still in his command chair when another attack was imminent.

"Magnify," the admiral ordered his exec.

Commander Tomlinson accessed the viewscreen controls and did as he was told, zooming in several times on what the bridge was currently looking at.

Several hours ago, a massive fleet of the yellowish-gold, conical-shaped alien vessels had slipped in-system. They arrived at the edge of the system—Archimedes Station was able to report their arrival this time, though it did Al-Hassin no real good. They had reached Sigma Octanus IV two hours ago and had been holding orbit with the rest of the Insurrectionist armada. Until now, that is.

Several days ago, only a half a dozen of those alien ships had attacked the Seventh Fleet at Elpis, and they had destroyed or disabled nearly twice that number of Al-Hassin's own ships. Now, a fleet of two hundred or so of those very same alien ships was heading right for the Seventh Fleet.

Al-Hassin watched them through the viewscreen, this alien Navy. His mind was calm, at peace. He had accepted what was about to happen.

The Seventh Fleet had only fifty or so ships left, around half the size of what it had used to be. This next attack would be the death of the Seventh Fleet. The UNSC vessels were outnumbered four to one by alien ships which usually needed _two_ UNSC vessels to destroy one.

"Give me an update on the status down in engineering," the admiral requested.

"Sir, the reactor is at forty-three percent and holding," Lieutenant Howell reported.

"It'll have to do," Al-Hassin shrugged. He wrung his hands behind his back for a second, and then turned on his heel and returned to his command chair. Probably the last chair he would ever sit in, and the last time he would ever sit in it.

Al-Hassin's mouth curved in a faint smile. It was a weird feeling, knowing that everything you now did would probably be the last time you ever would ever do it in your lifetime. It leeched the joy out of tasks that otherwise may have been fun and enjoyable, but at the same time it made hard and laborious tasks seem less difficult than they might have been previously. Al-Hassin had no problem with the first part; as a full admiral who had lost half of his fleet and men, happier emotions were alien to him, even more so now as he watched his fleet's destruction draw closer to Elpis.

"The battlegroup commanders are hailing us, requesting orders," Ensign Rush reported, working the communications console, isolating the COM transmissions.

Al-Hassin gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. He wished he had orders to give them. "Tell them to form up in a staggered line at rally-point Echo-Prime."

"Done," Rush relayed the orders.

"Fire Control, charge up the MAC," Al-Hassin ordered next, "Bring the missile pods online, all of them. Divert power from all secondary functions to this task; we will not be needing them very much longer."

"We're screwed, aren't we, sir?" Ensign Fitzgerald muttered as he input the commands into his console, bringing the armament of the _Blood and Iron_ to full battle readiness.

Al-Hassin did not answer his weapons officer. Instead, he simply said, "Helm, come about to new heading three-six-five, declination of zero-one-zero."

"Aye, sir," Lieutenant Sorrel replied. The helmsman brought the fleet carrier around and sent it on its course to the center of the Seventh Fleet's rapidly-forming line.

"Sir, I'm picking up something from Archimedes RSO," Ensign Rush spoke up, a hand pressed to his ear, "They've detected another mass of slipspace activity."

Al-Hassin shrugged. "It doesn't matter if the Insurrectionists receive more reinforcements; these aliens are more than they need. Carry on."

The _Blood and Iron_ continued on its course until it reached its position in the Seventh Fleet's line. Commander Tomlinson's status update on the Fleet's mobilization reported nearly full strength.

The alien fleet broke into a staggered line as well, mirroring the UNSC formation, albeit on a much larger scale. The glow of their charging weapons became all too apparent through the viewscreen.

Al-Hassin watched them, his face devoid of any emotion or expression. He straightened out his admiral's hat and uniform, standing up to his full height. He opened and closed his mouth several times, wanting to say something but not quite able to find the words. At last, however, they came to him, reluctantly. "Gentlemen…" he spoke in a quiet, sad voice, "You have fought alongside me since the beginning of this conflict, this war with the Insurrectionists. Some of you have fought in the Great War before coming here. You have all leaped through fire; you have all been to Hell. What sets you apart from so many countless others is that _you came back_," the admiral emphasized all three of those last words,"You survived. It may not seem like much, in retrospect. It may not seem like you made any impact. Maybe that is true. Me, personally…I don't believe that, not for a second. Each man and woman leaves a greater impact, a greater footprint on the universe than most would believe, in ways most do not understand. It can be immeasurable, the impact of the individual. You have all saved Humanity through each and every one of your actions. It has been the greatest honor of my life, to serve alongside you."

None of the bridge crew spoke. There was nothing more to say. They all continued to carry out their duty, though there was a new steel in their actions. Al-Hassin nodded to himself, satisfied. His crew was right in the very same boat along with him. They knew that there was no chance in heaven that the Seventh Fleet could survive the next attack. It was the acceptance of that fact which made their cores as hard as the titanium which the _Blood and Iron_ was made out of.

The seconds and minutes ticked by. The alien fleet drew within the extreme edges of their firing range—not all that close yet, but not too far away either. Giant bolts of energy lanced through space as their forward energy beam weapons opened fire. The UNSC ships did their best to dodge the bolts, and most were successful, but a couple were still hit. They took heavy damage, but were not yet destroyed.

"Mister Fitzgerald, turn over control of your station to Scipio," Al-Hassin ordered, "Nothing personal; AIs are more reliable than Humans when operating MAC cannons at extreme range."

Fitzgerald understood perfectly, allowing the shipboard smart AI to assume control of the _Blood and Iron's_ MAC cannon.

Scipio appeared in front of the viewscreen, offering a brief Roman salute to the admiral. "Hostile target acquired and appropriate firing solution plotted. Awaiting your order, sir," the centurion said.

"Lock solution into targeting computer and fire," Al-Hassin ordered.

The _Blood and Iron_ shuddered as its forward MAC cannon fired. The MAC round traveled the distance between the Seventh Fleet's formation and that of the advancing alien line in no time at all. One of the alien vessels spun out, its energy weapon destroyed, atmosphere leaking out of its nose.

Several other alien ships did likewise as the larger UNSC vessels opened fire with their own MAC cannons.

The alien fleet charged up their energy weapons again, preparing to deal the Seventh Fleet a more accurate blow as they came within fifty thousand kilometers.

Al-Hassin steeled himself, waiting for the energy bolts to tear into his ships, when the unthinkable happened.

"Sir, slipspace signatures emerging," Commander Tomlinson reported, "Isolating the position…they're emerging in-system several thousand kilometers behind the alien fleet."

"An in-system jump?" Al-Hassin sounded confused. "I didn't know Insurrectionists had the ability to to jump directly in-system…put it onscreen."

The viewscreen flickered, and ended up simply magnifying, revealing the advancing alien ships. Behind them, however, roughly a hundred or so slipspace ruptures appeared, providing the alien fleet with a strange, purple-white backdrop.

From those ruptures emerged ships. The vessels were definitely not Insurrectionist ships, but they were not UNSC vessels either. They were all purple, with an alien architecture and design. They were bulbous, similar to whales, but had a graceful appearance and movement to them which made up for the odd shape. Their hulls shimmered with energy shields and their weapons glowed a hot blue as their plasma charged up.

"Hot damn…never thought I'd be so happy to see those bastards…" Commander Tomlinson breathed.

Al-Hassin was thinking the exact same thing, though the position of command prevented him from voicing his mind in such a manner. He felt only relief, and something else he hadn't felt for days: hope.

The Elites had arrived.

* * *

Fleet Master Iram 'Ovarumee returned to his command chair. The zealot had been impatiently pacing the length of the bridge for the past unit, waiting for the return to normal space. Now that it had just occurred, he felt a measure of relief to be fighting once more, not sitting and waiting in the slipstream while allies were being torn apart.

"Status update," the zealot requested, "Discern what lies before us."

There was a pause, then Uliq 'Arrolee, the second in command of the assault carrier _Divine Radiance_ and 'Ovarumee's first officer, reported, "Fleet Master, sensors have picked up over two hundred enemy contacts directly ahead," the ultra said, "Bringing the viewscreen online and patching the signals through now."

The viewscreen flashed to life, revealing the image of a large, gray moon in the background. In the foreground was a huge formation of the pre-determined two hundred 'hostile contacts'. 'Ovarumee recognized those ships instantly; the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression had already engaged those aliens several times. He knew that they called themselves the Tirque and that their technology was not far behind that of the Sangheili, though they did not yet seem to have cracked the secrets of energy shielding.

"More of these vermin?" 'Ovarumee muttered. "What of the Human shipmasters in this system?"

"There appears to be a force of fifty-two Human vessels just outside of orbital range of the moon, Fleet Master," Iaro 'Inzaunumee—the officer at the TACCOM—replied, manipulating the controls of his console to get a better understanding of the situation, "I believe our arrival may have just saved them all."

'Ovarumee's mandibles tightened in a thin smile.

"Fleet Master," K'lar 'Reosee, the Sangheili domo major manning the communications station, "Orders are coming in over the battlenet from the _Resplendent Rapture_. The Supreme Commander has given all ships permission to engage."

'Ovarumee gave an approving nod. "As the Gods wish it, so it shall be. Helm, come about to new heading zero-five-three by one-seven-five, all ahead full."

N'saro 'Kirrahee, who was manning the NAV, confirmed the orders and brought the assault carrier about to the indicated course.

"Time to intercept?" 'Ovarumee asked.

"Four minutes," 'Kirrahee replied.

'Ovarumee's mandibles clicked in irritation at having to wait even longer, but he stayed the course and remained firmly planted in his command chair. "Heat all lines," he ordered Nyre 'Rellakee, the Sangheili at the operations station, "When we come within weapons range, we shall be ready."

Many of the smaller and faster ships in the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression—frigates, destroyers, battlecruisers—pulled ahead of the _Divine Radiance_ as the Sangheili fleet plowed on towards the Tirque formation.

The Tirque ships, sensing the new threat, had milled about for a minute or two, unsure which enemy to attack first. Finally, a decision had been made and their fleet had turned about, coming about to face the Sangheili.

'Ovarumee's hearts accelerated with anticipation. A foe that would stand and fight face-to-face was more than any Sangheili warrior could ask for. "The vermin ahead of us has enough courage to stand and face us on both feet," the Fleet Master said over the fleet-wide channel of the battlenet, his words heard on the bridges of every vessel in his portion of the fleet. "Brothers, let us give them all the deaths they seem to crave so dearly. May the Gods be with us all."

"Coming within weapons rage…_now,_" 'Arrolee exclaimed.

The faster ships in the Sangheili fleet had already engaged the enemy, but the assault carriers and the Supreme Commander's supercarrier were now catching up.

As the smaller ships drifted out of formation on their own vectors, dueling with their opponents, the rest of the alien fleet formed up to meet the rest of the Sangheili.

"Break fleet formation," 'Ovarumee ordered, "We cannot fire without endangering our brothers. We shall engage the enemy on our own terms."

"Hostile contact bearing zero-six-three," 'Arrolee warned, moving over to the primary TAC station, right next to 'Inzaunumee's Operations post. "Enemy ship is charging up energy beam."

"Reverse starboard thrusters, bring us about to face them," 'Ovarumee ordered. "Weapons, heat lines five, seven, and nine. I need a firing solution on that ship."

The centrifugal force of the _Divine Radiance's_ sudden starboard spin was enough to force the bridge crew to keep a steady hand on their armrests or consoles to keep from sliding.

"Firing solution plotted, Fleet Master," 'Rellakee reported, "Lines five, seven, and nine ready to fire on your command."

"Lock the solution in on that ship's energy signal and fire."

The lights on the bridge dimmed momentarily as the assault carrier's plasma heated and flowed from its lateral banks into their projectors. Three crackling plasma torpedoes arced into the darkness, leaving glowing navy-blue wakes as they traveled. All three impacted the enemy ship's frontal port-side armor, melting through the alloy that was so resilient to MAC rounds with much less difficulty.

"Fleet Master, enemy signatures detected heading right for us—space fighters," 'Arrolee reported.

"Contact all Seraph squadron-leaders in the hangar bays; I want them launched immediately," the zealot ordered quickly.

After half a minute, 'Inzaunumee reported that it was done. A cloud of Seraph-class starfighters shot forth from the _Divine Radiance's_ hangar bays, briefly filling the viewscreen before they grew tiny and vanished into the darkness. The dull, tiny flashes of plasma explosions and energy discharges were the only thing visible of the furious dogfights raging between the Seraphs and the alien fighters.

"Fleet Master, we are receiving a distress call from the _Cleansing Flame,_" 'Reosee exclaimed, "Two enemy vessels have engaged her and her shields are down."

"Helm, maneuver two-eight-six by zero-zero-three," 'Ovarumee ordered, "Forward two thirds. Recycle plasma and prepare to fire again."

"Sir, that places us right in the firing lines of those two Tirque ships," 'Kirrahee observed as he sent the _Divine Radiance_ on its new course.

"We have fully generated lateral shields; we can take the hit of at least one of them," 'Ovarumee replied. The zealot took a quick glance at the readout at his side. He studied the positions of the _Cleansing Flame_ as well as those of the two Tirque ships attacking them. He took one look at the nearer Tirque ship and gave a satisfied nod. It was in a good position, near the course path of his assault carrier.

"Helm, maneuver zero-zero-three, keep it level."

'Kirrahee's forehead contorted under his helm in a frown. "Fleet Master, that puts us on a collision course with the nearer Tirque vessel."

"I am aware of that. Make the course correction."

'Kirrahee gave a slight shrug and entered in the course change, trusting in his commander. 'Ovarumee did not mind his orders being questioned in that manner; it was not insubordination and it showed that his crew could think on their own.

Fleet Master 'Ovarumee let his ship continue on its course for a few seconds, watching the two Tirque ships grow larger and larger in the viewscreen. Sensing that the time was right, he gave his next order. "Fire the forward energy projector, dead-center targeting solution."

"Dead-center targeting solution, aye," 'Rellakee confirmed. "Tirque ship in our sights. Projector spinning up…firing…"

The _Divine Radiance_ trembled ever so slightly as its best and most powerful weapon opened fire. In the very fore of the bulbous former-Covenant vessel, a bright, thin, silver-tinged, purple particle beam of highly-concentrated energy snapped out of the forward energy projector, slicing into the lateral armor of the nearer Tirque ship. The projector tore a sizable hole through the hull of the alien vessel, causing it to list heavily, leaking atmosphere out of the gaping breach in the hull. The rapid decompression caused a large explosion which tore up most of the Tirque ship's port side. If the ship had possessed energy shields, it would have been annihilated by the shields containing the force of the explosions, but instead it was only fatally damaged.

The _Divine Radiance_, having spent a good chunk of its energy by firing its projector, was left powerless as it drifted into the second Tirque ship's line of fire. The assault carrier rocked violently as it was hit by the Tirque ship's own red energy beam.

"Direct hit to the starboard lateral shield," 'Inzaunumee reported, "Shot has been successfully deflected, but the shield has collapsed. We will not survive another hit to that section."

Already, the second Tirque ship's forward beam weapon was beginning to charge up again. Whatever they used for power, it was much quicker than plasma, though obviously weaker.

"Dump plasma from the auxiliary coils into the starboard lateral banks. Heat all starboard lines and fire on that second ship," the zealot ordered next, his grip on his armrest tight enough to turn his knuckles purple.

"Diverting plasma now," 'Inzaunumee murmured, "Plasma restored, though our engine capacity has been halved."

"We would not be able to escape this even with full engines," 'Ovarumee replied calmly. "Heat all starboard lines and fire on the second Tirque ship," the zealot repeated.

"Lateral lines are hot," 'Rellakee nodded, manipulating the holo-blocks on his console, "Firing…plasma torpedoes away."

Sixteen roiling plasma torpedoes streaked through space from the starboard of the _Divine Radiance_ and splashed into the Tirque ship. They made it about halfway when suddenly they began to lose their intensity, cohesion, and shape, becoming hazy, convoluted blobs moving this way and that in between the assault carrier and the Tirque ship.

"What is happening?" 'Ovarumee barked, leaning forward in his chair to better see what was happening with the plasma.

"The Tirque ship appears to be sending out counter-guiding signals to our plasma's guidance signal pattern," 'Arrolee murmured, observing the same thing through the console at the primary TAC station. "Attempting to disrupt…"

"Counter-guidance signals? You're saying they can gain control over our torpedoes?" 'Ovarumee clarified, not one trace of his rising trepidation evident in his voice.

"If they overcome our own signals, then yes, they could," 'Arrolee nodded his head, his face flushing purple and his mandibles clicking nervously as he feverishly worked to counter the Tirque's efforts to turn the _Divine Radiance's_ own weapons against it. "If I can disrupt their signals, then I can reestablish control and send the alien vermin into eternity, but their counter-signals are…difficult to-"

"Did the Brutes-" 'Ovarumee referred to the Jiralhanae with the degrading name the Humans had bestowed upon them- "not use technology similar to this during the Battle above the Second Holy Ring?"

'Arrolee nodded. "They used prototype counter-guidance technology stolen from our own ships which could interfere with the plasma guidance signals, wreaking havoc with targeting."

"I thought as much," 'Ovarumee nodded, "If this technology is similar, then we can stop it the same way we did at the Second Holy Ring. Recalibrate the plasma's guidance patterns to home in on their own signal lock."

'Rellakee's hands were a blur as he input the changes into the sixteen plasma torpedoes' guidance signal patterns. Instantly, the sixteen blobs of plasma caught in the middle of the signal tug-of-war between the two ships elongated back into their former comet-like shapes as they accelerated back towards the Tirque ship once more, their destinations laid back out for them.

"Signal lock reestablished," 'Rellakee confirmed, his voice triumphant.

The enemy ship had extremely durable armor, but under the fury of sixteen bolts of superheated plasma, the front two thirds of the entire ship was instantly reduced to molten slag, making it just a set of engines which drifted aimlessly, having no bridge to tell them what to do next.

"The _Cleansing Flame_ is sending its thanks," 'Reosee informed the Fleet Master.

'Ovarumee gave a silent nod. "Maneuver three-two-zero by zero-zero-five."

"Three-two-zero by zero-zero-five, aye," 'Kirrahee murmured.

"Auxiliary coils replenished," 'Inzaunumee reported, "Lateral starboard shields have been-"

Suddenly, the assault carrier rocked again as it was hit by what had to be another energy beam. "Damage report!" 'Ovarumee shouted.

"Scanning…" 'Inzaunumee murmured, checking through the ship's systems to determine what had just happened and what the consequences were. "Aft shields are down…sensors are detecting multiple pings towards the-" the domo major paused mid-sentence as his console began to emit a loud, beeping alarm sound. The Sangheili bridge officer hit one of the controls and the alarm ceased. "Fleet Master, hostile boarding craft have made contact with our stern. Detecting multiple hull breaches near the engine sections."

'Ovarumee gripped the armrest of his command chair. "We have an infestation aboard," the zealot hissed, "Dispatch our Spec Ops teams to those areas immediately and have the rest of our complement on standby. They must not reach our reactors. Cleanse them from this ship."

"Relaying orders now," 'Arrolee murmured, activating the intra-vessel communications array and sending off the orders to the appropriate Special Operations Sangheili.

The zealot returned his attention to the viewscreen in front of him. "New course zero-eight-three by zero-zero-zero," he ordered the helmsman.

"Zero-eight-three by zero-zero-zero, aye," 'Kirrahee replied, maneuvering the assault carrier's engines and thrusters to send the ship turning to the starboard.

Another violent tremor reverberated through the hull of the _Divine Radiance_, this one sending several bridge officers flying into the nearest wall or other solid object.

"Impact!" 'Inzaunumee exclaimed, pulling himself back up into his chair, "Direct hit to our aft-starboard armor…the shot has penetrated; I'm getting reports of fires spreading through decks fifty-nine through seventy in sections eighteen and nineteen. Casualty figures coming in now…"

"Sound the depressurization alert in those sectors," 'Ovarumee said quickly, "give our brothers two minutes to get on respirators or evacuate, and then vent the atmosphere in that area into the adjacent sectors or into space if need be. Those fires must not spread."

"Yes, Fleet Master," 'Inzaunumee nodded, making good on the zealot's orders, "Depressurization alarm sounded. Dispatching Engineers to make necessary repairs in the meantime."

"Weapons," 'Ovarumee swiveled around and faced Nyre 'Rellakee, "Trace those firing solutions and get me a target!"

"Tracing," 'Rellakee set to work, referencing the data logged from the last two hits the _Divine Radiance_ had just taken from the Tirque ship behind them, "Acquired. Target is attempting to drift into our starboard baffles."

"Pinned," 'Ovarumee hissed, his voice savage, "Invert that firing solution and acquire their energy signal. Lock onto that signal and plot a solution."

'Rellakee's mandibles clicked as he worked, manipulating the holo-blocks of his console as he quickly made the micro-calculations required to isolate the energy signals of the enemy Tirque ship in order to give the plasma torpedoes something to lock onto. "Energy signals acquired and locked, solution plotted."

"Heat lines three and seven, lock solution into the targeting system, and fire."

"Lines three and seven are hot, firing…torpedoes away," 'Rellakee reported.

"Onscreen."

The viewscreen changed to a view of the assault carrier's aft sections and the Tirque vessel beyond. The lights on the bridge flickered once from the temporary loss of plasma, but quickly returned to normal. Two crackling bolts of bluish-white plasma streaked through space and seared through the frontal armor of the trailing Tirque ship before it could fire off another shot at the _Divine Radiance_. It was not destroyed, but its forward energy beam weapon was wiped out. It would not deal anymore damage to the Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression, and could easily be mopped up later.

It was times like those when Fleet Master 'Ovarumee truly did not envy the Human shipmasters. Their MAC cannons were certainly effective if used properly, but their design forced the Human shipmasters to aim their entire ship at their target in order to hit it with the giant weapon. 'Ovarumee only had to do that when firing the _Divine Radiance's_ energy projector. Plasma torpedoes were not hindered by such limits.

The _Divine Radiance_ changed its course after this last small victory and placed itself back near the center of the battle, closer to the supercarrier _Resplendent Rapture_—Supreme Commander 'Yeromee's ship and the flagship of the whole fleet. Gradually, the Tirque formations began to splinter until their ships were reduced to maneuvering all over the place on random vectors, threatening to collide with anything unlucky enough to get in their path.

After a while, the Human ships from the remains of the fleet which had been in orbit around the moon which they called 'Elpis' regrouped and hit the Tirque from the rear, causing mayhem among their lines. All semblance of organization vanished as their fleet split to meet both threats without any central authority.

After the surviving Tirque ships began to break off and retreat back towards Sigma Octanus IV, 'Ovarumee ordered 'Kirrahee to bring the _Divine Radiance_ to a full stop to allow spot repairs to be made to the areas damaged by Tirque beam weapons.

The Fleet of Ambivalent Transgression gradually regrouped and held position as the rest of the damaged Sangheili vessels paused to make repairs of their own. The communications console flashed once, catching the attention of 'Reosee. "Fleet Master, we are being hailed by the _Resplendent Rapture_."

"Onscreen," 'Ovarumee nodded to the communications officer.

The viewscreen flashed once, replacing the image of the fleeing Tirque survivors with a view of the wide, dim bridge of the supercarrier which was the flagship of the entire fleet. The Sangheili at their stations on the flagship worked silently, in deep concentration. A tall, brown-skinned Sangheili in simple, reflective purple armor turned to the viewscreen, making eye contact with 'Ovarumee.

The Fleet Master clasped his right fist to his left heart in a respectful salute, bowing his head in front of his superior.

Supreme Commander Zolan 'Yeromee returned the gesture. "Fleet Master," the supreme commander greeted his subordinate, "Contact the rest of the ships in your battlegroup. You have two units to complete any necessary repairs and regroup. After that, we are attacking the Human heretics in orbit around the planet. Relay these orders."

'Yeromee killed the channel, moving on to contact the other two Fleet Masters serving under him.

"You heard the Supreme Commander," 'Ovarumee said to 'Reosee, "Establish a link with all ships under our command and relay those orders. Operations," the zealot turned to 'Inzaunumee, "Keep an eye on progress repairing the breached hull sections. Speed the Engineers up in any way possible; I want this ship to be spaceworthy enough to take on an armada. Once you have completed that task, I want you to give me a status update on our...uninvited guests," 'Ovarumee ordered his operations officer.

"Spec Ops is reporting two or three dozen hostiles in the far aft sections," 'Inzaunumee's reply was, after he quietly conversed and coordinated with the Engineers on board the _Divine Radiance_, sending them off to the sections of the assault carrier which needed repair the most. "They were making a beeline for the reactor chambers, but they appear to have been stopped in one of the cargo bays. They have holed up and are resisting all efforts to flush them out."

'Ovarumee's mandibles clicked in irritation. "Spec Ops should have flushed them out before they were even able to defile the main corridors with their filthy footsteps," the zealot growled. He stood up out of his command chair and headed for the exit, turning to speak to 'Arrolee as he left. "Ultra, the bridge is yours until I return. Keep the Engineers on-task; I do not want to find them skittering around the sub-decks tinkering with the anti-matter warheads again."

"As you wish, Fleet Master," 'Arrolee gave a quick salute and left his station, striding over to the command seat.

'Ovarumee walked out of the bridge and into the corridor beyond, venturing out into the labyrinthine passages and walkways of the assault carrier. Sangheili crewmen and warriors of all ranks passed by him on his way. All stopped and respectfully saluted him as he passed by, recognizing him as the shipmaster.

The Fleet Master returned all of the salutes and made his way into the nearest gravity lift, stepping in and inputting the location command for deck sixty-three, section forty-seven, the rear-most area of the _Divine Radiance_, and the place where the Tirque boarding parties had been reported to be.

As the gravity lift began to descend, whisking 'Ovarumee away towards the aft of the assault carrier, the zealot reached down to his waist and drew out the fist-sized, shiny metal hilt which had been hanging there. He activated it and watched as the energy sword's glowing, bright white blade sprang into existence, illuminating the dark lift passages, casting a dull glow over his face.

'Ovarumee deactivated his sword, but kept it in a firm grip; he would soon need it.

The zealot smiled as the gravity lift picked up speed, shooting off towards its destination, tightening his grip on his energy sword. He had an infestation on his ship which needed exterminating.


	60. Chapter 59: The Deep Breath

Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Deep Breath

**0700 hours, November 25, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Three Days Ago)  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Black Hills, North of Côte d'Azur**

_Hope for the best, but don't expect it. She's in God's hands more than mine, right now._

When Samantha-G113 had been brought—burned, bleeding, a hairsbreadth from death—into the central field hospital near the Spire, that was what the attending surgeon had said when Alex had asked him if she would live.

Alex-G004's mouth curled in a contemptuous scowl as he oiled the insides of his sniper rifle, recalling those words all too well. He gave a bitter grunt, pressing the rag into a small niche in the insides of the sniper rifle where a grain of dirt had collected, wiping it away.

_She's in God's hands_.

That got a cynical chuckle out of the blue-eyed Spartan. Alex had never been a religious man. He had known more than his fair share of religious people throughout the Great War and the subsequent years, but he had never understood them. He could not, for the life of him, understand why _anyone_ would want to worship a so-called Creator who had just allowed his 'children' to be driven to the brink of extinction, without doing a damn thing to help them. Someone like that would be the kind of person Alex would rather hit over the head with a folding chair.

Alex wasn't sure he wanted his wife in the hands of someone like that. No, she was in the hands of chance. That knowledge did not make Alex feel any better, but he firmly believed it was the truth.

"She survived the surgery, Alex," the deep, hoarse voice came from behind. Alex turned to face the speaker. It was Tyrone.

"I've seen people come around from worse wounds than what she's got," the larger Spartan said to Alex, though the blue-eyed Spartan got the feeling that Tyrone was reassuring himself more than anything else.

Alex chuckled again in that same, icy, bitter tone. "Yeah, now tell me another one," the blue-eyed Spartan muttered. "If she pulls through, it'll be nothing short of a miracle."

"I'm telling you, Alex, she'll be fine," Tyrone reaffirmed stubbornly, picking up Alex's rag and running it over the stock of his M90. "She's a Spartan. Hell, _you_ survived worse after the our warthog crashed on the Ark. She'll be fine."

Alex took back his rag, stuffing it away. He reassembled his sniper rifle and set it down on the ground. He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back against the tree he was sitting in front of, watching the rising sun peek through the clouds as it climbed over the eastern horizon. The first telltale rays of light teased over Delta Line, the middle line of the UNSC defenses in the Black Hills, and the line which the First Expeditionary Force had fallen back to after the outer lines had fallen yesterday.

The faceplate of Alex's MJOLNIR caught the sunlight and reflected it back. The Spartan felt a sudden need to feel the cool, misty morning air on his face, and so he unsealed his helmet and pulled it off, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes.

Tyrone studied his oldest friend. Alex's face was completely emotionless. If his friend was feeling anything, he kept it well-hidden. It unnerved him to see Alex like this. When the Cruciamentum in the Insurrectionist city had blown up, 'killing' his son, the blue-eyed Spartan had descended into a black mood, an angry, bitter, dark man with vengeance as his only goal.

This was different. It was as if his core had been hollowed out. _No,_ Tyrone shook his head, Alex had not become a lifeless shell, but he had definitely changed. He was silent more often than not, rarely speaking or giving any outward expression. He had not been out of his MJOLNIR for a while, and that had only added to the image of a silent statue.

Tyrone did not like this new persona, not one bit. If Sam did not survive the aftermath of her surgery, if she died…it would break him. Something had almost broken in him already. His core had taken a severe beating and was currently trying to get back on its feet.

"We're a strange people, Ty," Alex murmured, his gaze still fixed on the rising sun. It would only be a short while until the cloud break was over and the rain returned; if one was going to enjoy seeing the sun, he had only a short time to do it.

"We can see in the dark, run as fast as moving vehicles, bend metal; yeah, I'd say you're onto something there, we _are_ pretty strange," Tyrone, in spite of himself, rolled his eyes.

"Not Spartans, I mean all of us. _Soldiers_," the blue-eyed Spartan took a deep breath. "We go through the worst Fate has to offer. We fight, we kill, we bleed… We can stare Death right in the face without even blinking an eye. We've all done it more than enough times during the Great War. And yet…" Alex shifted, settling back into a more comfortable position, finally averting his eyes as the sun grew brighter, "And yet…when faced with the possible death of another person, someone else; a friend, a squadmate, a comrade…a _wife_…when faced with the death of someone else, we soldiers—the same ones who have looked Death in his face so many times already—are so quick to turn to denial and hollow reassurances. We are the first ones to pat each other on the back and say 'everything's gonna be okay'. We are a very strange people."

A loud, blaring klaxon sounded somewhere behind the front lines. Enemy activity had been spotted; an attack was most likely imminent.

"Well in the meantime, you need to get up off your very strange ass," Tyrone grabbed Alex by the shoulder and hauled him to his feet, "Deep, mind-blowing, gut-wrenching philosophy hour's over; we're about to get more company."

* * *

**Three Days Later, November 28 [Present Day]**

"Hang a left here, corporal," Lieutenant General Hiroshi Hasegawa told the command car driver as they neared a fork in the road.

The 'roads', if you could call them _roads_, in the Black Hills were not paved; they were narrow streaks of gravel and dirt. They ran through the various campsites in the hills and mountains and also functioned as main hiking trails. They were more suited to the latter purpose than the transport of vehicles, in any case, that much was painfully evident by attempting to drive on them.

Hasegawa stuck to the roads as much as possible nevertheless—it was harder to get lost that way—but occasionally he would have to forge through the woods. That was not the case now. He knew every detail of the route between his II Corps HQ and Central Command in the Spire. There were roads which ran between the two locations, and Hasegawa had forced himself to remember the way.

"If you say so, sir," the lance corporal driving the command car pulled the steering wheel over to the left, sending the transport down the indicated trail. "The Spire should be just beyond the next mountain."

Twice, Hasegawa and his driver came under attack by Insurrectionist aerial fighters looking for some easy prey to toy with. The M41 LAAG mounted on the top of the vehicle discouraged them from staying longer than a minute or so. General Hasegawa loved the feeling of being behind the LAAG. A general rarely fires a weapon in combat or kills any of the enemy during battle. Actually being able to physically, directly take action against the ones attacking you after spending too much time behind holo-tables and COM arrays felt exhilarating.

Hasegawa bared his teeth in a satisfied, savage grin as another of the Insurrectionist fighters brewed up in ball of fire, smoke, and shrapnel. He rarely displayed such raw emotion in that manner, but no one was watching, and, hell, he was actually _enjoying_ himself. He ceased fire and ducked back down into the interior of the command car, sliding the roof hatch shut.

"We're in the clear," the corps commander said to the driver.

"Nice shooting, sir," the lance corporal remarked, though Hasegawa suspected that he was simply complimenting his shooting because of the three stars on his shoulder straps.

"Sure beats clay pigeons."

The rest of the trip took six or seven minutes. Hasegawa directed the driver through a few shortcuts which he had previously run across, significantly shortening the drive from what it normally would have been.

Finally, the command car crested around the mountain it was circumnavigating and the Spire came into view, the nexus of the First Expeditionary Force's defense of the Black Hills. The road by this point had been bombed into oblivion, so the lance corporal drove off to the side and maneuvered through the trees.

No more aerial attacks hindered the Corps Commander. His command car was pulling into the compound surrounding the Spire within two minutes. Marines manning the inner defenses snapped quick salutes in Hasegawa's direction as he passed by. The lance corporal pulled up in front of the fortified, reinforced, bunker-like entrance to the Spire. "Here we are, sir," the driver announced.

"Thank you, Higgens," General Hasegawa said to his driver as he clambered out of the command car, shutting the door behind him and striding up to the entrance to the Spire. The two marines guarding the entrance clicked their heels, snapping to attention as the Corps Commander approached.

"At ease, men," Hasegawa waved a hand towards the two men as he passed through. He made his way down through a system of hallways and stairwells until he reached a heavy set of titanium double doors. As the aging Japanese man stepped in close to the door, a micro-laser snapped out from the scanner set into the doors and, within in microsecond, adequately read the general's retinas. The doors hissed open, revealing the outer operations room of the Spire, the room which all of the First Expeditionary Force's actions were being headed up in.

"General Hasegawa!" the call had come from one of the HQ staff. Hasegawa recognized the man as Colonel Bates, General McCandlish's adjutant. "General Hasegawa! In here, sir; they're all waiting."

Hasegawa made his way through the bustling crowd of the Central Command HQ staff, finally managing to reach the conference room at the other end of the operations chamber. The aging general pushed open the door and stepped inside.

A long, rectangular table dominated the conference room. Already seated around it were seven other men, all with varying amounts of stars on their shoulder straps. They were the other generals of the First Expeditionary Force.

"Ah, Hiroshi, glad you could finally join us," Elias Wyvern, the older, gaunt, gray-haired commander of I Corps greeted his II Corps counterpart..

"Apologies for my tardiness," Hasegawa said as he took a seat between General Armistead and General Dalyell—the commander of 1st Division. "I was…delayed."

Armistead gave an agreeing hum. "Insurrectionist aircraft have nearly free reign in the skies. Speaking of which, where is Dominique?"

"Colonel Dominique will be joining us shortly," General McCandlish replied, "In the meantime, I think Hasegawa's arrival makes for a full crowd, everyone. Let us begin. Gentlemen," the quad-star general rose out of his seat and hit the controls for the holo-table set into the wall behind him. A large, holographic representation of the Black Hills in their entirety sprang into existence. The lights in the conference room dimmed, making the holographic Black Hills more pronounced. "Gentlemen, this was the situation three days ago," McCandlish began.

A series of blue lines appeared in a rough circle-like shape, all of them set close to the foothills on the edges which ringed the taller hills and mountains towards the center of the Black Hills. The generals leaned forward, knowing that they were looking at a representation of what the First Expeditionary Force's lines had looked like three days prior.

"This is what the situation is today," McCandlish input a command and the blue lines changed drastically. The lines to the north and west had, for the most part, held, but they had begun to fray. The lines to the southeast had completely vanished, reappearing halfway between their previous location and the Spire in the center of the Black Hills. The lines to the far south and east had also been similarly relocated, just barely managing to keep linked with the north and the west.

The generals all took in this image. It was nothing new to them, but to see the stark consequences of the fall of Mount Araquiel right up close was painful and humiliating.

"Gentlemen, this is unacceptable," McCandlish stated. He cleared his throat and returned to his seat at the head of the table. "I need status updates on all of our defenses, right now. General Wyvern?"

Lieutenant General Wyvern mopped his brow with a dirty rag and got to his feet. He snapped his fingers and the image of the Black Hills disappeared, replaced with a hologram of one of the giant, reptilian aliens which had arrived suddenly on Sigma Octanus IV three days ago. The holographic technology was convincing enough to make several of the generals take a nervous breath.

"In the western and northern sectors, we have been coming under light, superficial attack," Wyvern informed his fellow generals, "At first, enemy attacks were heavy and costly, but things seem to have quieted down to the north."

"The Insurrectionists most likely pulled much of their attacking forces in the north down around to the south so they could have sent them in to help take Mount Araquiel," General Armistead surmised, "My regimental commander in charge of the 29th, who was in charge of Mount Araquiel's defense, mentioned that the numbers the Rebs were throwing into that assault were well above normal. It would appear the Rebs have concentrated the vast majority of their forces to our southeast, pulling down most of their forces in the north. I had to send forces from Landett's division to keep Delta Line from disintegrating."

"Aerial recon has confirmed these facts," McCandlish nodded, "Continue."

"They've created a battering ram with their forces by concentrating them like they have. Think of it like an egg; when you have equal pressure bearing down on all facets of the egg, it might as well be made of titanium-A. However, if you take that equal force and concentrate it on one small point on the egg, it shatters. For the most part, it is the arrival of these…these _things_-" General Hasegawa gestured to the image of the reptilian alien- "that have made their advances through what used to be our southeast lines so successful. They possess technology beyond our own, added to the fact that they are extremely hard to kill. Even our Spartan assets who were fighting on Mount Araquiel had trouble with them. We lost two Spartans to their initial attack, and a third was severely wounded."

"The debacle at Mount Araquiel did not occur due to a failure of command or of the marines themselves," General Wyvern explained, "Though I'm sure all of us have already learned this by now. Quite simply, we are spread too thin against too large an enemy. We still are, only that enemy has just become more powerful and deadly."

"He is correct," Hasegawa spoke up for his I Corps counterpart, "On Irivet V, we succeeded only because we had more men and materiél than they did. That, and they were on the defensive. Here, the tables are turned, only the numbers have increased."

"They have been steadily attacking us since we made landfall in Côte d'Azur ten days ago with nothing less than an entire army group. Every day, they lose hundreds to our marines, but it does not matter," McCandlish said bitterly, "They are beginning to feel the burn of continuing this fight against us, but they still have enough manpower to keep right on replacing their losses. We do not have that luxury; our casualties are beginning to pile up. Something must be done."

"General, in the east we have established Delta Line, the last line of defense between the enemy and here," Hasegawa said. "Generals Armistead and Natchez-" the II Corps Commander gestured to both of his subordinate division commanders- "have both confirmed my reports of alien presence along with the Insurrectionists. Delta Line is getting the hell beaten out of it, sir. We need more men down there."

"We will further weaken the other lines to the north if we pull anymore of I Corps down to help you," McCandlish countered, leaning forward and drumming his fingers on the surface of the conference table, the wheels in his head turning as fast as they could go. He murmured a command and the holographic image of the alien was replaced once more with the representation of the Black Hills. "The Rebs are indeed amassing their forces to the southeast for another, colossal attack, that much is painfully obvious, but they are also keeping enough forces in the north to cause us a bloody nuisance should we weaken I Corps' positions too much in order to bolster Delta Line. We're in a predicament, right now."

"Not quite," another general said. It was Lieutenant General Harrington; the commander of the 13th Armored Division, the First Expeditionary Force's tank and artillery division, otherwise known as the _'Flaming Thirteenth'_. He was the youngest general in the room. He was a brash, direct, no-nonsense man. He had longer, golden-brown hair, a thick horseshoe mustache, and an aura of pride and charisma about him which made most instinctively want to follow him into battle headfirst. Had he existed several centuries in the past, he probably would have been wearing a plumed hat, leading cavalry charges.

"What do you suggest, general?" McCandlish asked. The north-English Force commander knew that Harrington had his flaws, but the younger general was rarely wrong.

"Are all of you familiar with the Alamo?" the armored commander asked, getting up out of his chair. McCandlish, Hasegawa, Armistead, and Edward Dalyell—commander of 1st Division—all nodded, but the rest remained silent.

Harrington continued. As he spoke, he slowly walked behind the generals seated at the table, moving in a slow, deliberate circuit around the room. "It was an ancient battle fought in the then-fledgling country of Texas, seven-hundred years ago. It is not widely taught these days, so not many know too much about it. The Alamo itself was a fortress in what is now the southwestern portion of North America. Some hundred Texans made a stand in that fortress against an enemy force of over a thousand. Together, those one hundred men fought, bled, sacrificed, and—ultimately—died. They forged a great legacy for themselves, but, in the end, they were all still just as dead as they had always been. Gentlemen, you could say the Texans died because of short supplies or because of other reasons, but when you boil down all of the bullshit, there simply weren't enough of them. Same thing applies here; we will not be able to hold the Black Hills for much longer against an enemy of the size which we are facing, especially with these aliens helping them. Defense-wise, all roads lead to defeat. That being said, I believe we are left with only one option. We cannot be those one-hundred Texans."

"Attack…" General Dalyell murmured.

"Couldn't have put it any better, Edward," Harrington nodded. A wry grin split his face as he laid out the groundwork for the plans forming in his mind. "We happen to have one thing that those sorry sons of bitches who tried to defend that building in Texas did not," the armored commander declared. "Tanks."

* * *

"Care to repeat that last bit, sir?"

Captain James Stackhouse was standing around a small holo-table in the cramped, semi-protected 3rd Battalion CP. With him were Captain Thomas Finch, the commanding officer of H Company, and Lieutenant William DeFrancis, the new CO of G company ever since Captain Bridges stopped a bullet with her forehead the day before.

Major Rawlins, the battalion commander, obliged his subordinate and repeated the last thing he had said, which also happened to be the very _first_ thing he had said. "Command has ordered a counterattack."

"Okay…okay, good…" Stackhouse relaxed somewhat, "When informed of exactly how Command wants us all to die, it pays to be certain you did not misunderstand them."

"Noted," Rawlins replied emotionlessly, though faint traces of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I do not know all the intricacies of this new offensive, but I do know that it's going to be big. The main objective is to retake Mount Araquiel and reestablish the original line of defense. 3rd Division drew the short straw for this. The attack will be three-pronged, as shown here-"

The battalion commander hit one of the holo-table controls and the image of the southeastern reaches of the Black Hills appeared. From the UNSC defenses—represented as blue lines—came a large, block-shaped formation of UNSC troops. This formation fought its way through the Insurrectionist positions—represented in red. Once the formation neared Mount Araquiel, it splintered and broke into three smaller formations, presumably two regiments each. One formation slogged on towards the mountain while the other two broke off and swept through their respective sides before wheeling around and slamming Mount Araquiel on both of its flanks.

"We—the 54th—will be in the right flank, along with the 29th," Major Rawlins explained, highlighting the portion of the 3rd Division attack formation which had peeled off to the south to attack Mount Araquiel's right flank. "We will have to drive the Rebs off a good number of key points in the foothills to the southwest of the mountain before we can begin our assault proper."

"What do we have in the way of support?" Captain Finch asked next.

"I was getting to that," Rawlins nodded, "Due to the significant hostile presence in the southeast, this counterattack will most likely encounter heavy, _heavy_ resistance. As such, we will be working in close tandem with armor from the 13th Armored Division and as much air support as can be spared. Elements of 5th Division will also be in reserve. I would assume that—yes, lieutenant?"

"Sir, we're concentrating _all_ of our armor for this?" Lieutenant DeFrancis frowned, something not settling right with the new company commander, "Wouldn't that weaken everything else up to the-"

"Hey, kid, you want the tanks or not?" Captain Finch, who had long learned the art of not questioning the favors Central Command bestowed upon him, posed the question to DeFrancis brusquely.

DeFrancis had no good answer to that which would not go against his earlier sentiment, so he remained silent.

"When do we start?" Stackhouse asked finally.

"The Flaming Thirteenth will be ready to roll in an hour," Rawlins answered, waving his hand and deactivating the holo-table, "You have until then to bring your companies up to full battle readiness. Lieutenant DeFrancis, you are new to command, so it's best you know _now_ that a company commander has absolutely no personal time on the battlefield. You are to devote 110 percent of your time and energy into keeping your men alive. Bear that in mind for this next offensive. Any last-minute questions?"

"Other than finding out which kind of wood I want my coffin to be made out of, no, I'm good," Stackhouse shrugged.

"You all are dismissed," Rawlins nodded, saluting his three company commanders, "Good luck to all of you."

"And you, sir," Captain Finch nodded back, turning on his heels and hurrying off into the cool morning air, Lieutenant DeFrancis hot on his heels.

Stackhouse placed his helmet back onto his head and was just stepping out when he heard Major Rawlins call out his name. "Sir?" the CO of India Company turned back around to face his superior.

"I would suggest mahogany."


	61. Chapter 60: Four Words

Chapter Sixty: Four Words

**1938 hours, November 28, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**15 Km West of Mount Araquiel, Black Hills**

"Marine, you have five seconds to fix that Jackhammer or we're all dead!" Captain Stackhouse shouted at Private Henratty, who was fumbling with a rocket launcher, trying to clear away blockage in the left-hand tube.

The world shook as the Insurrectionist tank advancing towards the shell hole the captain was sharing with the beleaguered private fired again. It was getting much too close for comfort.

Henratty fumbled with the Jackhammer. Swearing loudly, he picked it back up and, with one final effort managed to prize out the chunk of shrapnel blocking the left tube.

The tank was less than ten yards away and still advancing, its main cannon bearing down on the two pinned marines like a divine judge. "_Private!_" Stackhouse exclaimed, starting to fidget nervously as the tank bore on.

Private Henratty slammed two rockets into the chamber of the Jackhammer and hefted it across his chest. He stood up, aimed at the tank, and fired the first tube, dropping back down to his stomach as fast as he could. The rocket shot through the air at the tank, which had just enough time to fire off a short spray from its bow machinegun before the rocket tore through the already-weakened frontal armor.

"Good shot, Henratty," Stackhouse clapped the private on the shoulder, but the marine did not reply. He had slumped forward over the edge of the shell hole and was not moving. Stackhouse leaned over and saw that the young marine was missing the top of his head, blown clean off by a heavy round from the tank's bow machinegun.

The company commander paused for a second in respect to his fallen comrade, but quickly moved on, grabbing the Jackhammer and vaulting out of the shell hole. He did not have time to give a eulogy. Most KIA soldiers were lucky if their deaths were even acknowledged or noticed.

Stackhouse emptied the other tube into another nearby Insurrectionist tank, casting the empty rocket launcher aside and unshouldering his MA6A assault rifle. As the second tank brewed up, Stackhouse became aware of marines from his company streaming past his shell hole in pursuit of the now-retreating enemy.

The company commander was damned if he would let any of his men plow on ahead of him. A good field officer's place was always at the front of an advance. Stackhouse vaulted over the lip of his shell hole and joined his men as they sprinted forward through the woods at the base of Hill-19, the large hill rising up in front of the current position of India Company's portion of the UNSC advance through the Black Hills.

For the past day, all of 3rd Division had stormed forward from Delta Line in a huge advance to the southeast with the objective of retaking Mount Araquiel. The division had been moving with the 13th Armored throughout the morning, afternoon, and early evening, pushing through the surprised Insurrectionist forces occupying the hills and small mountains in between Delta Line and Mount Araquiel. The enemy had not expected the UNSC forces to suddenly go on the offensive; that much had been evident in their poor defense.

An hour and a half ago, 3rd Division had split into three columns, two regiments each. One of those columns continued pushing on towards Mount Araquiel, another broke off to the east to hit the defenses above the desired mountain, and the last column had moved off to the south to hit the key hills below Araquiel. Both of the columns which broke off to hit the defenses north and west of Mount Araquiel would—after securing the local areas—wheel around and slam the mountain from its flanks, trapping any Insurrectionists occupying the peak in a three-sided meatgrinder.

Captain Stackhouse's regiment, the 54th, was a part of the force heading south, along with the 29th Regiment. The going had been steady for the past hour or so, but half an hour ago, the blitzkrieg-esque advance had run out of steam as the Insurrectionist commanders finally rubbed their two brain cells together hard enough to set up a formidable defense against the UNSC onslaught.

More and more often, Stackhouse was able to observe longsword and hornet squadrons being called in for air support to soften the road for the infantry and armor.

The trees thinned out as 3rd Battalion of the 54th Regiment drew near to the hill, many of them blown to splinters and shavings by prior heavy UNSC bombardment. Unfortunately, this left the advancing marines with less cover than they had had previously.

Stackhouse gazed through the thin veil of fog with his field glasses at the hill rising up in front of his company. He could easily spot the bright flashes of heavy machinegun emplacements, as well as the red bursts of alien laser-fire. The company commander swore under his breath as he spotted the aliens themselves. The hulking, twenty-foot-tall monsters were hard to miss.

He activated his COM and transmitted a warning over the air to his company about the aliens up ahead.

Mortars began to pound down on the approach to Hill-19 as Major Rawlins's battalion drove onwards, supported by a contingent of tanks from the Flaming Thirteenth. Captain Stackhouse had no way of knowing how many of his men met their ends from those mortars. It was likely none of them were hit, but every so often someone would get unlucky. Even so, Stackhouse probably would not know about it until the after-action casualty report.

On the bright side, if the advance went completely fubar and India Company ended up getting completely annihilated, Stackhouse would not have to worry about reading the casualty list or filing the paperwork.

3rd Battalion emerged from the woods a few minutes later, only to be greeted by a thick hail of heavy weaponsfire from the Insurrectionist MG emplacements.

Stackhouse stumbled as the earth in front of him was torn up by a spray of lead, and was then thrown forward ten or so feet by a mortar explosion from behind. He landed face-first in the mud. The company commander muttered under his breath and picked himself back up, placing his helmet back on his head and crawling over to his MA6A. He got to his feet in time to see a group of four marines get cut down by a burst of weaponsfire from one of the heavy gun emplacements. The captain swore again.

"Advance with the tanks, use them for cover!" the company commander shouted to his men, gesticulating towards the nearby dragons with quick, sharp hand gestures.

The marines who hadn't already wised up were quick in finding a nearby dragon and huddling behind it, moving up with the large machines as they slogged up through the mud.

Deafening bangs were omnipresent as the dragons all around opened fire, sending well-aimed high-explosive shells into the nearest enemy gun emplacements. The constant patter of firing heavy MGs was lessened somewhat, but did not by any means vanish.

It took at least ten minutes to carve out a foothold at the base of the hill. Insurrectionists, spurred on by their commissars, held their ground to the last. In some instances, they actually charged forward and engaged Major Rawlins' marines in hand-to-hand.

Rockets blazed down the hill as enemy rocket teams fought back against the dragons which were tearing their comrades to ribbons. Several dragons were hit in the weaker side armor, resulting in unpleasant, oily explosions. Burning crewmen were seen tumbling out of the wrecks, screaming in agony as flames licked away at their flesh. They were the 'lucky' ones. Marines hurried over to beat the flames out, assisted by the rain.

"Keep moving!"

NCOs were heard screaming and shouting orders out, doing their utmost to keep the men in their squads alive as they stormed and cleared trench after trench, foxhole after foxhole. It was ironic to think that they had been the ones who had been defending from these very same fortifications several days ago.

Stackhouse remained where he was for a second; giving several other marines behind him the chance to move up to better cover nearer to the tank ahead of him. That was when the mortar landed, tearing right through the dragon's armor and setting off the shells stored inside. None of the crewmen made it out.

The dragon blew up, sending shrapnel and debris everywhere. The marines unlucky enough to be too close to the tank as it brewed up didn't have a chance. Stackhouse was thrown back into the mud, striking his head on a tree stump, leaving him winded and dazed.

The sounds of battle sounded distant, muffled by shellshock. Captain Stackhouse shook his head and hit the side of his helmet several times, trying to shake himself back to full awareness.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him about. Stackhouse recognized the face of Lieutenant Hiram Young, his executive officer. "Jim!" the exec was shouting, "Sir, you have to get up!"

Stackhouse pulled himself back to his feet, leaning against a nearby tree for a moment as he regained his breath. As he looked around, he saw the advance beginning to stall. Stackhouse shook his head; that was not acceptable. If the advance bogged down _now_, it would be World War I all over again, spending dozens of lives for every inch of ground gained. Dozens of lives which India Company did not have.

The company commander activated his COM, "Hotel Company, this is Stackhouse," the captain exclaimed, "Finch, where the hell are you?! My boys are getting torn apart in a crossfire up here!"

"India Company, this is Lieutenant Worthington," another voice, clearly _not_ Captain Tom Finch's, issued through the COM, "We're doing our best down here, but we've run into resistance from those alien creatures-"

"Where is Captain Finch?"

"I'm sorry, sir, Captain Finch ate a mortar shell ten minutes ago; I'm in command of H Company, now."

"_Damn it all_," Stackhouse hissed under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. He realized with, a sobering thought, that he was the last captain left in his entire battalion. "Worthington, if you don't move up soon, my company is going to-"

"Sir, the enemy is faltering!" Lieutenant Young exclaimed, gesturing further up the slopes at the trenches, where more and more Insurrectionists could be seen moving over to the north face of Hill-19 as unseen assailant attacked them from a different direction. That must have been 1st Battalion, Major Parson's unit.

Still, myriad small holes opened up in the Insurrectionist lines, gaps which the enemy tried feverishly to close. Stackhouse did not intend to give them the chance.

The company commander paused for another second and took a deep breath, gathering his voice before roaring "Move up! _Move up!_" in as loud a volume as he could manage without running his throat ragged. He bent over and picked up his MA6A, taking one long stride forward, then another, and then breaking out into a run.

"Get moving, marines!" Stackhouse shouted, sprinting up the muddy slopes of the hill as fast as his boots would allow. Several times he came across a marine hunkered down under the enemy fire, unwilling or unable to move. Stackhouse personally hauled those kids to their feet. "Keep moving, marines; you want to live forever?!"

More and more marines of India Company joined in the assault at the sight of their company commander sprinting by. Stackhouse knew that men were more likely to charge head-first against the enemy _behind_ an officer rather than in front of one. While it was the good officers which always led an advance, that unfortunately meant that many of the now-dead officers had been from the 'good' category. Spearheading advances did not exactly do wonders for an officer's life expectancy

The woman in front of Stackhouse jerked suddenly, her head vanishing in a haze of red gore. Her body pitched forward and lay motionless. Stackhouse hurdled over the headless corpse and kept right on moving, ignoring the tracer rounds searing through the air all around him. Twice, a bullet grazed the edges of his armor, but did not succeed in wounding him.

"Grenades! Lob 'em over!" Stackhouse shouted next, pulling a frag off of the grenade string on his chest and yanking out the pin. The Insurrectionists in the trench were firing back as much as they could without getting shopped to pieces by the heavy MGs mounted on the advancing dragons.

As ordered, a sizable amount of grenades sailed through the air, arcing down and over into the trenches up ahead. Some of them were tossed back out, exploding harmlessly in midair or in the mud; others went off in the trench, taking a multitude of enemies down with them.

"Lieutenant Young, tell the grease monkeys to ease up a bit!" Stackhouse ordered his exec, "If they keep up this fire, they'll cut _us_ up as well!"

As Young conversed with the crews of the tanks advancing with the company, most of them ceased fire with their MGs to allow Stackhouse's marines to safely approach the trenches. Their main cannons continued to roar, but they aimed at more distant targets instead of front-line ones.

There was a bright flash and a wave of heat off to the right as a marine with an M7057 flamethrower reached the first Insurrectionist trench through the heavy fire and emptied his weapon's arsenal onto the unfortunate soldiers in gray. Agonized screams were audible several hundred yards away as Insurrectionist soldiers burned. The flamethrower-toting marine hopped down into the compromised trench, followed by a handful of others.

Stackhouse hit the dirt as he drew near and belly-crawled his way up the rest of the muddy slope. A high-explosive shell shot over his head, hitting the barbed wire and wooden stake defenses in front of the trench, obliterating them all in one fell swoop.

The company commander continued on, his MA6A carefully trained on the trench in front of him. As he crawled up, he fired at any unfamiliar head which popped up in order to prevent the defenders from shooting down at him. Right now, he was as vulnerable as a fish in a barrel. His luck was a ticking time-bomb; he had to get in that trench, and _fast_.

Stackhouse got to his knees and fired a quick burst down into the trench in front of him. Two Insurrectionists had been huddling against the wall when Stackhouse had come a-knocking at their front doorstep. They probably didn't even know what had hit them before the company commander shot both of them.

Stackhouse rolled into the trench and quickly dispatched a third Insurrectionist who was spinning around to see what the commotion's source was.

Five more marines slid down into the trench behind Stackhouse. The company commander directed three of them to head in one direction while he led the other two the opposite way. They joined up with other marines who were jumping into the trench all along its length, clearing away any resistance they encountered with grenades. Along the way, Stackhouse spied many more charred corpses, indicating the presence of more flamethrowers. This was good; flamethrowers were invaluable in trench warfare such as this, as long as they didn't blow up on the soldier's back.

India Company completely cleared that first trench within the next fifteen minutes, allowing Golf and Hotel Companies—whose advances up the hill had been stalled and halted—to ascend the rest of the way and rejoin with India. Together, 3rd Battalion regrouped and sent up another attack against the Insurrectionists occupying the summit of Hill-19. Aliens were present in that defense, slowing down the attack considerably with their superior weaponry and vehicles. However, their lightly-armored vehicles were easy prey for the more cautious dragons. Canister shot also made short work of any aliens stupid enough to charge the marines head-on, which ended up being the vast majority of them. They seemed to have more in the department of fighting prowess rather than intelligence and caution.

Several squadrons of shortsword bombers swooped over the area, carpet-bombing the summit of Hill-19 to soften the small peak. When they finished their pass, they turned east and headed off towards Mount Araquiel, presumably to continue and contribute to the nearly perpetual bombardment the peak was receiving.

Major Rawlins personally led the next assault, taking his battalion on a bloody climb up the remaining half of the hill. A few more dragons were destroyed along the way, along with an undetermined amount of men and women.

The sun had long set by the time Captain Stackhouse finally set foot on the grassy, rocky summit of Hill-19. Off to the southwest he could see 2nd Battalion setting up shop on top of the smaller hill which they had gone up against.

Hill-19 had been the keystone of the hot spots on this side of Mount Araquiel. With its fall, all that remained were a handful of smaller hills and defenses which could easily be swept aside if the attacks were coordinated properly. Stackhouse personally surmised that 3rd Division would drive on towards Mount Araquiel while 5th Division came in here to clean up.

Of course, that wasn't taking into account the massive amount of reinforcements the Rebs in the area were bound to receive as their forces amassed to the southeast—

Stackhouse shook his head, clearing his mind. Thoughts like those could wait for tomorrow morning. 1st Battalion was camping out on the north face of the hill while 3rd got the summit. Already, encampments for the night were beginning to spring up.

The CO of India Company conferred with his exec and his senior NCOs, getting a status update on the state of his company. As of this last assault, India Company was down to fifty-percent strength. Again, Stackhouse pushed those thoughts from his mind; there was plenty of time in the future for the company commander to agonize himself over them, but not as much time in the present. And, quite frankly, Stackhouse wasn't in the mood.

The company commander let out another weary sigh and turned around, looking for his exec. When he found Lieutenant Young, he organized the sentry roster and sent out Young to implement it, pulling men and women for sentry duty at regular intervals for the rest of the night.

That done, Stackhouse found himself with nothing else to do. He wandered through his company's encampment for a few minutes, exchanging friendly nods and salutes with many of his subordinates. The flickering light of a nearby campfire seized the captain's attention. Stackhouse considered joining the men there for a second and decided against it, beginning to turn away. Something wouldn't let him walk away, though, so he remained rooted to the spot for a full minute before he ended up changing his mind. With an indifferent shrug, the company commander set off through the trees towards the fire. He could use the company.

* * *

Alex-G004 was worn out after the counterattack which had lasted all day today. All of 3rd Division had halted for the night, with the intention of getting right back to it first thing tomorrow morning. Anyone who could sleep was definitely doing it right now, but there were many—like Alex—who were exhausted, and yet could not sleep.

Alex tiptoed past Tyrone, who had been sleeping next to him under a willow tree. He did not want to wake the fellow Spartan; Tyrone would not take kindly to that. Subconsciously, he craned his neck, searching for his wife, who had to be nearby.

He did not see her. Alex's mouth tightened as he remembered that Sam was not here. She had been by his side ever since they had first met on Onyx over twenty years ago, when they were both five. Suddenly having her absent was like having a hole in the universe, one which Alex knew he would never get used to until she recovered.

Sam had somehow managed to hang onto her life throughout and after the surgery, surviving the near-fatal wounds she had sustained from alien laser-fire, a miracle in of itself. She was on the shelf in an aid station somewhere near the Spire; under the best care the medical staff attached to the First Expeditionary Force had to offer. Her condition was nearly stable; the doctors said she shouldn't take too much longer to return to active duty. Untold amounts of luck had been on her side, it seemed.

Alex found himself in the middle of a series of canvas tents and buildings. It was one of the marine companies which were bivouacked on the hill which 3rd and 1st Battalion had captured from the Insurrectionists earlier in the evening.

Though he was still clad in full MJOLNIR, he no longer got strange or awed looks from the other marines; they were all soldiers of the same lot, now. After all the marines had been going through in the Black Hills, they didn't even acknowledge Alex's differences any longer. They were either too tired or they simply no longer cared.

Something caught Alex's attention; a flickering light off to the right. The blue-eyed Spartan took a step forward and was able to discern through the trees the shapes of a couple dozen men and women around a medium-sized fire, sitting on logs or on the bare ground.

The Spartan found himself desiring the company of fellow soldiers. It had been a while since he had consorted with the common rank and file. Even during the Great War, he had operated more with his old team rather than with platoons or companies of marines.

Alex recalled, from the many war movies he had seen, depictions of marines and soldiers at night, sitting around fires, guffawing and trading witty banter, singing songs with guitars in the background, playing card games, sharing in the experiences which made them brothers. This image could not have been farther from the truth.

The marines around this fire were all silent. They all sat around the fire, staring into the depths of the blaze, as if it contained the secrets of the universe. The perpetually moving flames reflected in their eyes and cast haunting shadows which danced across their faces. They had just survived another day of Hell. They were briefly shaken out of their reverie at the arrival of a Spartan, all of them looking up from the fire to watch the armored supersoldier step out of the bushes.

From what Alex could see, the marines were mostly privates, though there were also a few NCOs, and even a captain. Alex took a seat at the least cluttered side of the fire, sitting down cross-legged and resting his elbows on his knees, content to remain as silent as the others around him.

Alex glanced at the faces of every marine sitting around the fire. They all had similar emotions showing; weariness, sorrow, acceptance, indifference. Their emotions were clear, even though their faces were expressionless and blank. By this point, Alex knew that it was impossible to find a marine in the First Expeditionary Force who did not have dead friends, friends killed in Côte d'Azur or more recently in these mountains.

After a little while, a faint song drifted over to the fire with the wind, an ancient-sounding, haunting melody. The music was coming from what sounded like a quartet of strings instruments. It was not overly loud or even audible; it blended in with and became a part of the background.

Alex gazed at the captain again. The man was the only officer present at the fire. He looked to be in his early thirties—not too much older than Alex himself—with a thin, angular face. A few fringes of prematurely white hair were visible under his helmet. Alex called up the captain's IFF friend/foe tag via his HUD, identifying the officer as Captain James G. Stackhouse, CO of India Company, 54th Marines. That meant this man was the company commander of the rest of the marines present as well.

The blue-eyed Spartan gave a nod, finally remembering where he had seen the man. "I saw you on the hill earlier," Alex said to the captain, breaking the silence of the fire circle, "You were the officer who led the charge which penetrated the Insurrectionists' lines, after the advance had all but stalled."

"That's what they tell me," the captain, Stackhouse, shrugged.

A faint grin tugged at Alex's mouth; he was beginning to like this man. The Spartan knew how to tell good officers from bad ones. Stackhouse—for better or for worse—certainly did not appear to be one of the latter. "I've seen my fair share of officers pull things like that, but it isn't every day you see an officer do what you did and live to tell the tale afterwards. You've got quite a pair."

Captain Stackhouse let out a quick, short chuckle, along with several of the other marines sitting around the fire. "More luck than anything else," the company commander replied. He stared into the flames for a full minute before speaking again. "Funny thing, luck…" the captain said, his voice deep and pensive, "I am the only captain left in my battalion, you know. Tom Finch and Regina Bridges…damn good marines, both of them. They were not the ones to charge a heavily-defended enemy line head-on; I was. Now…well _I'm_ the one who's still breathing, not them. If that isn't messed up logic, I don't know what is."

"If the universe played by those rules of logic, I would have died long ago," Alex murmured. Another thought occurred to the Spartan, getting a mirthless chuckle as Alex considered it. "Hell, if the universe played by those rules of logic, _Humanity_ wouldn't even exist right now; we would never have survived past the 2530s."

"Can't argue with that," one of the marines grunted. The marine who had spoken was an older, scarred staff sergeant, obviously a veteran of the Great War.

"Things have changed," Alex continued, "When I fought at the end of the Great War, I was my team's injury-magnet. If anything could ever go wrong, it would always, _always_ happen to me. Now…now, two of my comrades are dead, two more wounded, and I haven't gotten a scratch yet."

"Are you complaining?" Stackhouse asked.

"Far from it," Alex replied, "This is one of the first times I've had time to sit down and really think, ever since I made landfall here. Definitely not complaining about staying healthy, just…well, you know what I mean. Food for thought.'

One by one, after a while the marines around the fire stood up and headed off into the night, all of them ready to sleep the rest of the night away. Alex caught himself nodding off several times as the night dragged on. Soon, he was alone with Captain Stackhouse; Spartan and officer sitting opposite each other, a circle of glowing, dying embers between them, casting their faces in a dull red glow. The embers hissed and sizzled as the rain made contact with them, but they still had a ways to go before they returned to the earth from whence they came.

Finally, Alex could not stay up any longer. Sleep beckoned. He got to his feet and started to walk away. "Tomorrow's going to be the big one," the Spartan said, "Either we retake Mount Araquiel, or…" Alex's voice trailed off. He didn't need to finish that thought. "Good luck, sir."

"And I hope yours still holds," Stackhouse nodded back, not looking up from the fire.

Alex walked off into the rainy night, heading back for his and his comrades' willow tree. He looked back once he reached the edge of India Company's encampment, spying the faint glow of the embers through the trees and the mist, as well as the figure of Captain Stackhouse, who was still hunched over them.

Alex trudged through the trees covering the top of Hill-19 over to the willow tree which he, Tyrone, and Randall had been sleeping under. Alex deftly stepped over Tyrone's motionless form and nestled down in between him and Randall, shifting into a comfortable position and laying his head back.

Alex wasn't sure when he eyes finally slid closed. The next thing he knew, Tyrone was knocking on his helmet, shaking him awake. He cracked his eyes, opening them to the dark gray, cloudy skies of early morning.

"Common, Alex, time to rumble," Tyrone grunted, shouldering his M90.

Randall extended a hand to Alex, who accepted, pulling himself groggily to his feet.

The blue-eyed Spartan shook himself completely awake and stepped over to the trunk of the willow tree, grabbing his sniper rifle which he had leaned against the wood last night. Alex clipped the rifle to his magnetic weapons strip on the back of his MJOLNIR and took a few seconds to stretch and yawn before finishing gearing up and getting ready to move.

"Everyone green?" Tyrone asked his two compatriots.

Randall gave a quick nod, while Alex settled for winking his acknowledgment light green. They both meant the same thing. _Affirmative_.

Tyrone pushed the draping willow branches which hung down to the ground aside, stepping out into the open, followed by Randall and Alex. The trio of Spartans headed for the command post of the battalion which had taken Hill-19 for briefing. Orders would come in for them from division through the major in charge.

The briefing at 3rd Battalion HQ was swift and to the point. The battalion commander—a major named Rawlins—conversed with all three of his company commanders, laying the groundwork for the imminent march against Mount Araquiel out for them, as well as what their respective roles in the advance would be. Timing would play a great part in this next assault; when the 54th and 29th Regiments hit Mount Araquiel's flank, the 103rd and the 60th would already be hitting the mountain's northeast face.

After the company commanders were dismissed, the major turned his attention over to the Spartans and delivered them their orders from division HQ. The orders were simply to assist the advance of the 54th Regiment in any and all ways possible, though they were worded in a more official and proper manner. The assault was to begin in half an hour, when the contingent of tanks from the Flaming Thirteenth would be ready to move.

The sun was not visible beyond the thick veil of rain clouds, but the ambient daylight had brightened enough to render the environment visible to the naked eye. The half-hour flew by in no time. Soon, the three companies of 3rd Battalion were on the move, marching down from Hill-19 and joining up with 1st Battalion on the way. The two battalions trailed behind 2nd Battalion, which was bringing up the head of the 54th Regiment's advance through the smaller hills and mountains of the southeastern Black Hills.

Mount Araquiel appeared on the horizon within the hour, growing ever larger as the two regiments of the southern task force drew closer and closer. Alex's HUD clock was reading 0230 hours when the 54th crested the peak of Mount Othrys, the last mountain-sized peak in the southeast before Mount Araquiel itself. Suddenly, everything turned upside down.

Warthogs came speeding in from behind, bearing runners with orders straight from Central Command. That caused quite a stir; if General McCandlish was personally running orders up to the front lines, that meant something was causing quite a stir back at Central Command in the Spire.

Whatever that something was, it was enough to halt the entire advance. Regimental colonels and battalion commanders relayed their orders on down the ladder to the company COs. Soon, shouts were rising all over the formations for the advance to halt. The marines obeyed, confused and at odd ends.

Alex gazed across the distance in front of Mount Othrys to Mount Araquiel in the north, knowing that the Insurrectionist observers stationed on that mountain were just as flummoxed. They must have been beside themselves with confusion, wondering why the marines had suddenly halted.

"What the hell is going on?" Randall asked over the SQUADCOM.

"No idea," Tyrone shrugged. He walked up to the edge of the cliff face which the three Spartans were perched atop, staring out towards Mount Araquiel. "Command planning some sort of tactical strike or something?"

"Uncertain," was all Alex said in reply.

Tyrone glanced up into the sky a few minutes later, his hearing piqued. "You hear that?" the dark-skinned Spartan asked.

As he spoke a faint, distant rumbling noise _did_ come into Alex's range of hearing. The blue-eyed Spartan frowned. He recognized the sound, but could not place it. "Affirmative," he confirmed Tyrone's suspicions. Something was definitely coming down from the sky. Whatever it was, it was obviously the reason why General McCandlish did not want any troops in the area up ahead.

"Contact, one o'clock!" Randall barked suddenly, pointing off to the right.

The smooth, dark gray veil of rain clouds was disturbed suddenly as a glowing shape emerged from them, falling straight through towards the ground. As the Spartans watched, blazing gouts of flame spewed from its underside, considerably slowing down its descent just before it made landfall with a loud, echoing thud.

At least two hundred more similar objects fell, blazing, out of the sky, thudding down to the earth all around the original. They landed all over the hills in between Mount Othrys and Mount Araquiel, which would explain why McCandlish ordered the halt; it wouldn't have done for marines to get caught under one of those things when they made landfall.

A series of dull, rippling pops was heard as the fronts of all of those objects were blown off, scattering all over the place. Black-armored figures leaped from the grounded pods, readying their weapons, checking their gear, and sprinting off into the mist to find their units.

"Helljumpers? Here?" Randall spoke up, his voice higher with surprise, "How is that-"

"Looks like the Seventh Fleet's finally managed to break through, somehow…" Tyrone murmured, looking up at the clouds, as if he could look through them to see the UNSC ships which were no doubt in orbit above their very heads. "Doesn't matter how, the only thing that matters is that they-"

Tyrone was interrupted, for as he spoke even _more _blazing stars fell from the sky, impacting on the ground among the ODST pods. These pods were different; they were shinier, more coffin-shaped rather than the blockier HEV pods.

The fronts of those pods hissed and were blown away as well. From inside those new pods emerged black and silver-armored aliens. They were definitely not the Tirque aliens; they were taller, thinner aliens with a system of four separate, split jaws instead of a mouth, four fingers on each hand, and elongated heads. Bright while lights were visible as they activated their energy swords and fell out into their units.

"Elites?!" Alex exclaimed.

Tyrone's deep, throaty laughter filled the air as he beheld the Sangheili Spec Ops forces deploying in the valleys down below alongside their Human counterparts. "I don't think I've ever been so happy to see those split-lip bastards," the Spartan leader chuckled, "The Rebs are about to get the living shit kicked out of them. Fall out!"

Tyrone led the way down around the cliff face and back with the main force of the 54th Regiment. They made their way through the sea of marines, trying to get towards the front of the advance, when they heard their names being called out from the din.

A runner in a passing warthog caught sight of the Spartans as he was driving by. "Spartans!" the runner called out, slowing down and pulling up alongside the three super-soldiers, "I have orders for you three specifically to report to the L-Zed at grid square Gold-86 half a klick away for immediate pick-up. General McCandlish issued me the orders in writing. Which one of you is Alexander-G004?"

Alex took a step forward.

"You three have received new mission orders from the brass upstairs." the runner informed the Spartans, gesturing to the sky, and then turning and addressing Alex only, "Central Command received a telegram addressed for _you_ from one Colonel Angiers, the ONI official attached to the flagship of the UNSC Seventh Fleet. This is the message here-" the runner produced a small, folded piece of paper from an inside pocket and handed it over to Alex. "There you all are. Hurry up and get to the L-Zed ASAP. Good luck," the runner offered a quick salute to the Spartans before driving off.

Alex turned the piece of paper over in his hands and unfolded it. He read the message inside to himself, mouthing the words silently.

_From: Angiers, Colonel Robert G._

_UNSC Seventh Fleet ONI Liaison, Service Number: *Classified*_

_To: SPARTAN-G004, Petty Officer 2__nd__ Class, Gamma Company, NavSpecWep-_

Alex skipped past the intro and read the actual contents of the message. It was a very short message, only four words. The length did not matter anything, though; those four words were enough to make Alex nearly choke in surprise. Though no one else could see it through his faceplate, his eyes widened and his mouth hung open slightly. His prolonged silence and stillness were enough to arouse Randall's curiosity.

"You win the sweepstakes or something?" the Spartan asked.

Alex wordlessly turned the telegram around and showed both him and Tyrone what it read. Just four words, four simple words which could change everything.

_**Your son is here.**_


	62. Chapter 61: The Precursors

Chapter Sixty-One: The Precursors

**0800 hours, November 13, 2564 (Military Calendar) \ (Two Weeks Ago)  
Unknown Location, Slipspace**

**Magisterial Prowler**

"How much longer, Lieutenant?" the Director of Shade Branch asked the officer manning the prowler's helm.

The Director was impatient, and rightly so. After years of careful and meticulous planning, he had waited a very long time for what he was about to do. He had risen and fought his way through the ranks of both the Illuminati and the Magistarium to ensure his plans came to pass, and that had been no easy task.

Seizing the positions of the Illuminatus and the Director of Shade Branch had not been easy at all, but it had been necessary. He would not have been able to pull off half the things he had done in the past without the authority and privileges those positions entailed. All that hard work was now going to pay off.

The brutal High Chancellor Delmar was now dead—killed by the Director's own hand. That removed the last domestic obstacle to the Director's plans. He was going to rule the Orion Arm, and the Magistarium would no longer get in his way. The next obstacle to remove was the UNSC and their Sangheili allies.

That would be the easy part; things would get complicated after the UNSC was destroyed. The last threat to the Director's plans was the Tirque.

The Director's face twisted with contempt as he thought of the aliens which the Magistarium had stumbled upon several decades ago. Sentia and Hinaptryi—two species of aliens, both part of a greater whole.

The UNSC was more powerful than the Magistarium. The Director knew that, and he knew that the Tirque knew that as well. He knew the Tirque's motives; they were not that far-fetched. The Tirque had teamed up with the weaker Magistarium to take down the more powerful UNSC. In the process, the Magistarium's military would be weakened even further by the battles raging in UNSC space.

The Tirque despised Humans. _All_ Humans. By the time the UNSC was crushed—and it _would_ be, very soon—many of the Magisterial forces would have perished in the process, leaving it vulnerable to attack. The Tirque—having already taken care of the more powerful group of Humans—would then turn on the already-weakened Magistarium. The Magistarium wouldn't have a snowball's chance in Hell of coming out of a fight with the Tirque alive.

What had frustrated the Director to no end was the fact that he had been—and still was—the only member of the Magisterial government who had had the foresight to see what the Tirque were planning. None of the others in power had the intelligence or the common sense to see past their own agendas and appreciate the bigger picture. It was maddening. The Director spoke of his beliefs on the Tirque very, _very_ rarely in order to avoid alienation. Being in a position of power in the Magisterial government was a constant game of chess. One slipup, and you could end up with a bullet in the back of your head when you woke up the next morning.

The Director was fairly certain that Nemesis III was in the process of being conquered by the Illuminati. He had counted on this; the Illuminati were much more powerful than the Magistarium had given them credit for. The Director had seen to that, building up the Illuminati military and ensuring they received state of the art weapons and technology. When they took out the rest of the Magisterial government, he could begin anew.

None of the Illuminati knew of his identity as the Illuminatus. Only a small number of Spec Ops Youth operatives had discovered who he really was, but he had ordered their execution right before he left Portus Illuminatus.

All of his plans were delicately falling into place. What had stopped the Director from carrying his plans out for so long was the fact that he needed control of the Weapon to defeat the Tirque after the UNSC fell. The Weapon was arguably the most powerful weapon in the galaxy, with the exception of the Halo rings. The catch about it was that no one had the mental capabilities required to operate it.

Until now, that is. Normally Humans would have had to wait eons until their minds evolved enough to match the capabilities of the great civilizations of the past, but there was one exception. During the Great War, the UNSC had been heavily experimenting with genetics; altering the make-up of the Human body to create faster, stronger, better soldiers. The result had been Project Orion, which in turn gave birth to the SPARTAN program.

Twelve years ago, something extraordinary had happened. Two Spartan-IIIs conceived a child, the first Spartan child descended from Spartans of the later generations. The combination of two different brain mutagens from two different Spartan-IIIs in that child's own brain had…well, the Director was not sure exactly what it had done—he left that to the scientists—but it somehow made many dormant parts of his brain active. Humans only use a tiny fraction of their brain capacity; the mutations allowed the child to use much more. The effects would not overtly show until later in life, but they were still present.

That child had the mental and psychological ability to use the Weapon. It had taken a little while to arrange for the child to be brought to the Magistarium, but it had been done. After a whirlwind of complications, delays, and setbacks, the Director's ship was about to arrive in the system where the Weapon was located.

And it just so happened that the child who would be able to use it was locked away in the cargo bay. Everything was going to plan.

"How much longer, Lieutenant?" the Director repeated himself to his helmsman, who was in the process of checking his readouts to come up with a sufficient answer.

"Dropping out of slipspace in the Hyndareus System in thirty seconds, sir," the helmsman replied.

"Good," the Director forced himself to stay patient. He had waited decades for this; another hour would be nothing. It would seem like the longest hour in his lifetime, but it would still pass.

The thirty seconds passed as well. The helmsman reported that the ship was dropping back into normal space just before the transition occurred. With a slight, omnipresent rushing sound, the prowler emerged in the Hyndareus System, location of Hyndareus II, a Magisterial world.

They would not be going to the surface of Hyndareus II, or even to the planet itself. They were headed to the asteroid belt between the fifth and sixth planets where the Weapon had been brought by the Tirque.

"Do we have a visual?" the Director asked the man at the tactical station.

"That's affirm," the bridge officer reported, "Patching it through to the viewscreen now."

The viewscreen flickered as the sensors processed the visual data which existed in real space, replacing the blank black surface with a view full of asteroids and stars. That was not the focus of the Director, however. What he was gazing at was the gigantic object floating among the asteroids, easily the size of the larger space rocks.

It was an ancient ship. It was old beyond measure. The Director knew of the Forerunners and their legacy, but this ship predated even them. That was one of the great mysteries about that ship; who built it? Who existed before Humanity's ancient ancestors, the Forerunners?

The Director often wondered this, but he did not lose any sleep over it. That ship had been found centuries ago by the Tirque in a slipspace bubble, which was how it had been able to last so long without any wear and tear.

That ship was the Weapon. It was tetrahedral in shape; possessing a smaller core structure with four long, protruding, pyramidal arms on all sides, giving it its tetrahedral shape. It had to be over twenty miles in height. Each arm was twelve miles long. The Director assumed that it was from ships built like this that the Forerunners got the design structure of their similarly-shaped dreadnoughts and key ships.

The Tirque had maintained a giant military presence on that ship; they had found it, it was theirs to do with what they will. Centuries of endless, tireless work had allowed them control over the ship's engines, allowing them to move it from place to place, but the ship's main function—which is what turned it into such a deadly weapon—remained stubbornly beyond their control. Only the Ambrose boy could unlock it.

"Bring us into the central docking station," the Director ordered, turning away and heading off towards the bridge entrance/exit, "And then power down the ship. We will no longer be needing it."

* * *

Robin Ambrose felt a sudden chill all over his face. His eyes flew open. He gasped and sputtered as more ice-cold water was splashed into his face, jerking him back to full awareness. He looked around, taking in the now-familiar surroundings. The piles of cargo barrels, the stealthed HORNET mines, the mechanical benches and depots, the other force cages. A pair of magisterial guardsmen stood at the entrance of the cargo bay and a third stood over him, tossing aside the now-empty bottle of cold water he had been carrying for this occasion.

With a start, Robin realized that the normally shimmering, charged walls of his force-cage prison were gone, and the magisterial guardsman standing over him seemed to have not been a part of the crew for very long. He had heard that the child locked up in the cargo bay was dangerous, but he did not really believe that Robin could do anything to hurt him. With any other child that would have been true, but Robin was no normal twelve-year-old child.

"Rise 'n shine, pretty-boy." The guardsman bent over and seized Robin by the arm, roughly jerking the boy to his feet. A look of surprise suddenly flitted over his face when he felt the boy pivot on his left foot and strike. A small hand slammed into his shoulder and an explosion of pain lanced through him as the joint dislocated.

As Robin struck the man's shoulder, his right foot caught him in the chest. The sharp, rippling cracks of breaking ribs was painfully audible as Robin's kick went home, flinging the man over ten yards back, blood flying from his mouth, nose, and chest. He crashed into a stack of steel drums, toppling them like bowling pins.

Robin's blood was really pumping now. His limbs were aching and cramped after nearly two weeks of disuse. He had spent those long days cooped up in the force cage, unable to move around, unable to escape.

Now was his chance. He did not know where he would go, nor what he would do, but he did not think of such things. They could wait until he was safely off the ship. The whole of the prowler gave a slight shudder, signaling that it had docked.

The other two guardsmen at the exit had only seconds to react as they turned around to see an angry, desperate twelve-year-old sprinting towards them, his legs and arms moving fast enough to become a blur.

One of them reached down to his COM unit and was frantically speaking into it when the twelve-year-old plowed into him. Robin tackled the first guardsman. As the man scrabbled to get back to his feet, Robin grasped his head and drove it into the floor. There was a sickening _crunch_ as the guardsman's skull hit the floor, accompanied by a small spatter of blood. The man did not move. Whether or not he was dead, Robin would never know.

The second guardsman took a step forward and instantly regretted it. Robin swept his leg around and caught the man behind his knee. Something popped and the man went down screaming, clutching at his leg. A quick blow to the back of the head silenced him.

Hurried footsteps and barked orders sounded from just around the corner. Robin ran in the opposite direction, flitting down the corridor until he reached a junction. He flew around the corner and let out a startled "_Oof!_" when he smacked headfirst into the first of a troupe of six paladins rounding the corner from the other way.

The paladin reacted with admirable speed, dropping his weapon and grasping the boy by his throat. For his troubles, the paladin took a knee to the groin. He doubled over, gasping in pain and shock.

Robin broke off and ran the opposite way, ducking and stumbling as the walls around him were torn up with weaponsfire as the other five paladins brought their weapons to bear and opened fire.

Robin began running down corridors at random, avoiding any soldiers he came across. He had to find the docking ramp of the prowler. This was the same ship which had taken him from his home in Riverside to Nemesis III; he knew the general whereabouts of the exit, but he did not know how to get there.

He did not recognize where he was until he found a service tunnel and dropped down three decks to the bottom of the prowler. He kicked out the cover hatch and clambered out into the corridor. He took a quick look around and gave a satisfied nod. Yes, he was close, now. Only a little further…

Several corridors later, Robin was greeted with the sight of the open deployment ramp and the wide-open hangar bay beyond. That, and the dozen or so Magisterial Guardsmen blocking the entrance. Robin skidded to a halt and whipped around, taking a step forward. Something hit him in the stomach, something small.

An enormous shock jolted through the twelve-year-old's body, knocking him onto his back. He lay on the ground, twitching, tiny streaks of blue electricity dancing across his body.

The Director made a soft _tsk_, as if he were a schoolmaster scolding a naughty student. He flicked off the power for the taser he had just fired at Robin and the electronodes ceased.

"Now now…I did not go through all the trouble of bringing you here just to have you slip away," the Director mused, "It is impolite for guests to leave without saying goodbye."

"It's impolite to keep 'guests' locked up in force cages for two weeks, against their will," Robin retorted between coughs. He struggled to get to his feet, but his legs had not regained complete mobility yet. He fell back onto the floor.

"Mm…yes, I suppose…" the Director shrugged, "No matter." He gave a quick nod to the two paladins flanking him. The two faceless, armored men hauled Robin to his feet, keeping grips of iron on his arms.

Immediately, the twelve-year-old started to overpower them, but the Director clicked the electronodes back into his taser and primed the weapon, pressing it up under Robin's chin. "I jolted you with half power, my young friend," the Director casually informed the boy, "Act up again like you have been doing, injure any of my men; bat an _eyelash_ out of line, and I will hit you with the highest possible setting. This taser is powered by a nuclear battery; it can deal out quite a lot of punishment. We can see how long it takes for your hair to burn away and your eyes to boil."

Robin immediately calmed down. His sandy hair, which was beginning to curl around down past his ears, having not been cut in several months, remained safe for the time being.

Robin let out a bitter sigh as his one chance at escape was snatched away. He gave a mental shrug as he was dragged down the prowler's deployment ramp and across the hangar bay. He had just been taken to a bigger ship, it seemed. He would never have been able to escape even if he _had_ made it off the prowler.

"So?" Robin muttered as he was bundled into a car. The vehicle started up and set off across the rest of the hangar bay, pulling onto a large indigo square and coming to a halt.

"Hm?" the Director cocked an eyebrow.

"So what now?"

There was a bright flash of white, briefly obscuring all vision. When it cleared, the landscape outside had changed dramatically. Gone was the metallic, gray and white hangar bay filled with ships and vehicles. The car was now in a grove of evergreen trees with a winding dirt road laid out in front of it.

"What now?" the Director echoed, chuckling quietly to himself, "What now is that you fulfill one of the greatest feats in Human history. What now is that you ensure our survival against the Tirque."

"Huh?" Robin made a face, shifting to a more comfortable spot on the hard, cold leather seats, "Against your alien friends? Why'd you want to fight them?"

"It's not a matter of choice, I'm afraid," the Director sighed. He quickly added, "I'm telling you this, of course, because you will soon be in no position to share this information with anyone. And plus—the more you understand about what you will be doing, the better. Let me explain a bit about where you are."

"Oh, joy, a lesson; I thought I left school behind…" Robin grumbled.

"This ship was discovered by the Tirque many centuries ago, in a slipspace bubble. It predates even the Forerunners…which would supply us with explanation as to what the Forerunners drew their influences from when designing their dreadnoughts. But I digress—I suppose you care little as to what the origins of this wonder of technology are. I, too, care little about trivia such as that; it is irrelevant. What this ship is…it the UNSC's destruction, and the Magistarium's ace in the hole. The Tirque, you see, are our allies now…but they will not be for very long. They despise all Humans equally. Once the UNSC is crushed, nothing will stop them from turning on us. But they underestimated us…their arrogance is their downfall. They do not consider us Humans as highly intelligent creatures. The fact that some Humans—such as myself—would become aware of their plans and eventually act to _counter_act them would be inconceivable to those alien scum. When they turn on us, they will find themselves fighting an enemy with _this_ weapon it its arsenal."

Robin let out a yawn, purposely elongating and embellishing it, much to the Director's chagrin. "Oh, I'm sorry," Robin shook his head, clearing away the vestiges the yawn had left behind, "were you saying something?"

The Director continued, ignoring the interruption, his composure remaining unchanged. He reached into his suit jacket pocket and drew out a small, handheld holopad. He depressed a control and whispered a command. Upon that command, a holographic image of a tetrahedral ship came into existence, about the size of a clenched fist. "This, dear boy, is what we are on. Of course, if this ship were to be placed on the ground on three of its points with the fourth pointing up in the sky, the distance between the point of the fourth arm and the ground would be well over twenty miles. Each individual arm-" the four long, pyramidal arms of the tetrahedral supership simultaneously flashed- "is twelve miles long, which should give you a feel for the sheer size of it all. This place," the Director gestured to the forests and grasslands which the car was traveling through, "is all the central part of this ship, where all four extensions of the ship meet. It is a biosphere, capable of sustaining an ecosystem of life. There are no animals here, however, just trees and plants, all kept alive by the ship's systems."

Despite himself, Robin could not help but be curious. "So this place is basically a huge superweapon? What does it do?"

The Director smiled, pleased that Robin was taking a minimal interest in his surroundings. "According to the data we've gathered from this ship over the decades, we have determined that its original use was some sort of mining ship. It was utilized to harvest a certain material from the cores of dying supernova stars. However, if this mining device were to be applied to a planet's core…"

"…then kiss the planet goodbye…" Robin murmured.

"Yes, that's the gist of it," the Director nodded, "We do not know what the actual effects or outcome will be. That is why—before using this ship to destroy Earth—we will first test it on Sigma Octanus IV; another one of your UNSC worlds. The third-largest hub after Earth and Chimera VII, in fact."

"You've obviously had this hunk of junk for a long time," Robin observed, gazing at the encampments of soldiers which the car was now making its way through, "So why now? Why haven't you used it until now?"

"Well because we needed _you_, obviously," the Director chuckled, brushing a speck of dust from his lapels, "This ship, as I said, was created by a civilization which existed before the Forerunners' time. We simply call those beings the 'Precursors', which is Latin for 'Forerunner'; quite fitting, if you ask me."

"And this has to do with me…how, exactly?"

"You are not doing yourself any favors by acting in this rude manner," the Director cautioned. He cleared his throat and continued talking about the reason why he needed the twelve-year-old for his plans. "The Precursors were a psychic race; that much is obvious by deep investigations. Or if they were not all psychics, they still possessed many individuals with great psychic ability. They were much, _much_ more evolved than us, you understand. They could probably use a lot more of their brain capacity than us. We Humans have the same ability as they did; we just haven't discovered it yet. The Forerunners probably would have been every bit as grand and mysterious as these 'Precursors' if only the Flood had not killed them all."

"Fascinating," the twelve-year-old yawned again, "Still don't see what this has to do with me."

"Only a person with psychic ability can operate this ship," the Director finally said, "For anyone else it would be unresponsive and inert, but for you, Robin Ambrose, for _you_ this ship would obey. You have the ability to command this ship. You are a fluke in evolution, you see; your brain has been…altered by the combination of your parents' brain mutagens given to them during the augmentation process which turned them into the Spartans they are today."

Robin burst out laughing for a few seconds, restraining himself enough to say, "What; you're saying I can read minds, or something? That'd actually be pretty sweet, not that I think about it…I think I'd go on-"

"_Silence!_" the Director snapped, his cool, calm composure slipping, "Speak out of turn again and I will have you beaten. Your brain registers activity in many dormant areas of the Human brain which have never before been used. I do not know what this entails, but your brain patterns match the residual signatures in this ship's command systems. It seems the Precursors had adepts, psychics who would pilot and operate these ships. We have…cheated in some ways in order to gain limited control over this ship's engines, bypassing the psychic control in that case, but this ship's full capacity remains beyond our control. You can command this ship, and we can command you; so therefore, _I_ will command this ship."

"Command me?" Robin frowned, not sure if he heard properly.

The Director peered out the window. "We're almost here…" he murmured. The landscape had turned to a region of high, twisting cliffs and spires of gray rock and stone with white and blue waterfalls pouring through them. Mist rose into the air, shot through with rainbows as the light from the artificial sun in the 'sky'. In the distance, a structure could be seen rising up over the highest of the spires, what seemed to be a temple of some sorts. "That is the command structure…basically the bridge of this whole ship. It was in that temple where the psychic adept would command this ship while the rest of the population would go about performing the tasks needed to keep it running. What you have to understand is that this ship was less of a _ship_, and more of a miniature colony world. People worked here, but they also seem to have _lived_ here…I confess, it is something of a shame that this place must be used solely for war; there is ever so much to be gained by studying it. And this is our stop…"

The car reached the long, winding stairway which lead up to the temple entrance and pulled to a halt. The Director climbed out with the two paladins who had been in the back and the third one who had been driving. One of them reached in and pulled Robin out. The twelve-year-old did not resist, but he did not help either.

The Director led the way up the stairs to the temple. Robin followed behind, flanked by the three paladins. Whenever he lagged behind, one of the paladins would jab him from behind with their power batons, propelling him forward.

The interior of the temple was much like it was outside; built from stone, tranquil with water flowing down the walls and through the ceiling orifices. Several of the hulking, twenty-foot reptilian Hinaptryi aliens were present, standing guard in the many doorways, but the temple was mostly populated by white-robed, humanoid, blue-skinned creatures. They were the Sentia, the more intellectual of the two species that made up the Tirque. While they were more suited for science and politics, they made fierce, deadly warriors, capable of moving much faster than Humans.

Deeper in the temple, the Director walked up to a large, moss-covered doorway engraved with thousands of tiny hieroglyphs. Four Hinaptryi stood guard outside, all of them as still and unmoving as statues. This was the entrance to the inner sanctum.

"State your business," one of the Hinaptryi rumbled.

"You know very well who I am; get the hell out of my way," the Director snapped, his voice heavy and layered with contempt. He made little effort to mask the obvious hatred he held for the aliens.

The three paladins fidgeted nervously, tempted to edge away, but they held firm. Paladins were renowned for their ruthlessness, fearlessness, and efficiency—they rarely failed at what they did—but even they felt nervous around someone who was antagonizing giant lizard-creatures who could probably snap them in half without too much effort.

The Hinaptryi guards simply shrugged and stood aside. The doors rumbled open, allowing the five Humans inside before sealing shut.

The inner sanctum of the temple was very different from the outside. It was a warm, mild, lush jungle. Greenery, plant life, and wide trees occupied the space, along with many small, trickling streams. Sentia walked among the many walkways, paths, and structures in the open space. There were smaller, gazebo-like buildings all over the open space which served to monitor and keep an eye on the functions and operations of the Precursor ship. While they were unable to command the ship, the Sentia were still able to use the observation stations.

The main path from the entrance to the inner sanctum ran straight up to a larger, alabaster, domed building situated right on the island in the center of the sanctum, accessible by a bridge. As the Director approached with Robin and his paladin escort in tow, a taller, more muscular Sentian walked over from the other side of the bridge. "Director Culwynn," the Sentian inclined his head in a form of grudging respect.

"Lord Aieuras," the Director replied, his voice emotionless and neutral in front of the Sentia leader.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" the Sentian lord mused, falling in step with the Director, "It has been a while since you last graced me with your presence." The Sentian then took notice of Robin, who was still being pushed along by the paladins. A look of curiosity came over the blue-skinned alien's face. "You've done it, haven't you? You've found a key?"

"Precisely," the Director nodded, walking up to the entrance of the sealed command center. He placed his palm on the alabaster alloy, which was warm to the touch. There was a faint snick and a doorway appeared. It was not a section of wall which slid away; it was a man-sized portion of the wall which seemed to phase into a less-than-solid state, allowing objects to pass through. The Director and the Sentian lord stepped through, followed by Robin and the three paladins.

The walls of the interior of the command dome were made of some strange, silvery substance which pulsed and perpetually moved, almost in response to the presence of sentient beings.

"This, Robin Ambrose, is your destiny," the Director gestured to the contraption in the center of the room. It was a throne-like seat situated on top of a pedestal. A rather large amount of needles, nodes, tubes, and other invasive interface implements were hanging off the sides, front, and back of the throne, waiting to be inserted into a healthy body.

Robin took one look at the throne and instantly turned on his heels, not caring anymore what the Director did to him. There was no way in _hell_ he was getting in that chair. He batted aside the paladin behind him and leaped for the doorway, but the Director barked a command, causing the portal to turn back into a solid wall, sealing the command dome. Robin plowed into the wall headfirst and was knocked back down to the ground, winded and dazed, a lump forming on his forehead. He staggered back to his feet.

A paladin reached out to grab him, but Robin struck at the man's hand, pinning it against his arm and sweeping up. The paladin drew back with a shout, three of his fingers bent the wrong way.

"_Enough!_" the Director drew his taser and fired it, striking Robin full in the chest, upping the power setting to two-thirds, enough to give the boy's muscles the shock of their lifetime.

The twelve-year-old's hair was still smoking ever so slightly as the Director personally picked him up off of the ground and placed him on the throne. Robin was too weak from the electric shocks to put up anymore of a fight.

The Director unlocked the manacles set into the arms of the throne, placed there for specifically this purpose. He slid Robin's arms and wrists under the metal bands and clamped them down; immobilizing the twelve-year-old's arms enough so that he could not easily move. He would not be getting up out of the command throne, that much was certain.

"Get him hooked in," the Director ordered the Sentian lord, "You know how to do it better than I do."

"Well, that is one thing we can both agree on," Aieuras murmured. The Sentian stepped up to the throne and, while Robin was still in his stupor, went about inserting all of the needles, tubes, and the other life-support features of the throne which would keep Robin alive indefinitely until either he was removed from the throne or died of extreme old age, whichever came first. He then secured Robin's legs, neck, and shoulders down to the throne, completely immobilizing him. If he moved too much, it would dislodge the life-support systems, so his movement had to be restricted to nil. By the time the Sentian lord was done around an hour or so later, Robin had dozens of the needles and tubes reaching far inside of his body, already ingesting him with a constant stream of vitamins and nourishment.

"What…what have you done to me?" the twelve-year-old managed to rasp around the tubes which had been fed down his throat. He struggled, trying to move, but the restraints kept him from moving or tearing out the needles and tubes. He was, in a nutshell, stuck.

"You are going to be commanding this ship for a very, _very_ long time, my friend," the Director informed the twelve-year-old, "Those needles and tubes inside of you will keep you alive. You will not need food or drink or any of the other requirements of life while you are connected to them, leaving you to devote all of your energies to controlling this ship."

"How long?" Robin interrupted, "How long are you gonna keep me like this?!"

"Until your heart gives out from old age, most likely," the Director mused, "Though I probably will not be around to see that day. Because you are a Spartan, you may last much longer than a normal man would, maybe even over a century or two. Only time will tell."

The Sentian lord cleared his throat quietly, directed at the Director.

The Director let out a weary sigh. "Well, I'm afraid I must be leaving you now, Robin," he said apologetically, "I have waited such a long time for this. I feel as if a great weight has lifted off of my chest; it really is liberating. Thank you for that. Now, eventually your mind will break under the strain of commanding a ship this large. That is how I will be able to command you, since you were so curious. You will become a puppet, and I your puppeteer, pulling your strings from one of the other control buildings outside. Do not worry about the fact that you will have to sit in that chair for the next God knows how many years; your sanity will be long gone by the time you die. The time will fly by. Until we meet again—_if_ we meet again…have a good life. Our time together has been an _absolute_ pleasure."

With that, the doorway outside reappeared, allowing the three paladins and the Sentian leader to exit the command sanctum. The Director was the last to go, giving Robin one last cheerful nod before vanishing. The doorway solidified into a solid wall once more.

Robin Ambrose was alone.

The pulsing silver walls instantly transformed into a more liquid-like structure, pulsing now with many colors.

Slowly, Robin realized that they were responding to _him_. Whenever he felt a new surge of anger or depression, whenever a thought suddenly popped to mind, the liquid-like walls would pulse even more and the colors would change and swirl.

The twelve-year-old gradually felt a stimulating sensation in his mind. Something was at work here, something was doing something to his mind; he could feel it.

Time passed. It kept marching on, indifferent to the twelve-year-old's plight. No one else ever entered the command dome. Robin was definitely, completely, truly alone; that realization was slowly beginning to dawn on him.

The going was tough into after a long while, Robin felt something. A presence. Not physically; there was no one else in the room, but something was definitely there, trying to communicate with him.

His mind still tingling, Robin began to understand a little of what the Director had meant when he had said that he could use more of his brain than other Humans. Those tingles were probably the dormant parts of his mind being gradually brought to life. What that entailed, however, was beyond him. He did not know what would happen because of it, nor what the results would be. Unless it freed him from this throne, he did not really care.

After a while, his mind began to wander. He began to hear what sounded like whispers, touching just on the very edges of his consciousness where he could not directly detect them. He began to feel things…weird, different things… Whispers leading him...guiding him...

He did not know when his eyes closed or when he finally lost consciousness.

* * *

He was in a forest. His body was his own again, no needles, no tubes; nothing was defiling it anymore. There was a presence somewhere nearby, and Robin instinctively knew that that presence was the source of the whispers and brushes of consciousness against his own.

Then the presence spoke, not with a voice, but with a sensation. Words that were felt more than heard.

_Reclaimer_…

Robin set off through the woods in the direction of the mysterious presence. He walked for a while, picking his way through the brambles, stepping over the roots, hopping across creeks and streams. Wildlife chirped in the underbrush and birds flapped through the canopy, sending leaves fluttering down to the sun-dappled earth.

Robin finally spied a simple log cabin with smoke coming out of the chimney further on in the forest. He quickly made his way through the underbrush and through the trees to the house. He drew up to the door hesitantly, standing outside, unsure of what to do. Something was inside, that much was certain.

His mind made up, Robin grasped the handle and pushed the door open, stepping inside. The sweet, spicy smell of fresh apple cider greeted him as he entered the cabin. There was a small table with two chairs in the center of the room, along with a bed in the corner and a kitchen in the opposite side.

The cabin was empty. Robin turned to leave.

"Reclaimer," a voice said from behind.

Robin whipped around and nearly cried out in surprise when he saw a short, bald, plump Asian man in the kitchen area, stirring a pot of a dark, viscous, sweet-smelling substance. "What…how…who…?"

"I imagine this must be very confusing for you, young one," the man sighed, putting his spoon aside. "Come help me with this."

"What is it?" Robin asked, grabbing hold of the pot at the man's behest.

"Molasses," the Asian man replied, "Stick it in the icebox over there and let it chill."

Robin complied, sealing the pot and stowing it. "Are you-"

"Please, sit down," the Asian man gestured to one of the chairs at the table. He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of iced tea, pouring a cup for himself and his guest. "Drink up, too; you look exhausted." After Robin drank half of his glass, the Asian man sat down opposite of the twelve-year-old. "This is not real, as I'm sure you have guessed," the man declared, gesturing to everything all around him, "I simply created this illusion for your mind to…well, to make it easier on you. It would be slightly more difficult communicating with you in that horrid chair. I can tell that you are special; you possess a unique mind. If you were a normal life form, I would not be able to communicate with you in this way."

"Are you an AI?"

The man let out a quiet chuckle. "Oh, heavens no; I am _much _more than a mere artificial piece of data and matrices. I am the Custodian, the caretaker of this colony-mine. You are the Commander, the one who has the authority to command me. I must say, you are the youngest I have encountered in all my time."

"What are you if you aren't an AI?" Robin asked, "A person? Spirit? A soul?"

"That's the question, isn't it?" the Custodian chuckled again, not answering Robin's question. "Ethereal is what I am. What are _you_, however, hm? You are no Precursor—that is your species' label for mine. You are a Forerunner…but at the same time, you are not…"

"I am a Human."

"Human?" the Asian man's brow furrowed in confusion, "Child of the Forerunners…It was foretold long ago that your race would arise. I can see that your species now holds the Mantle of Guardianship…most fascinating…much has happened…"

"So…" Robin murmured, eager to switch the subject to something he could understand better. "What happens now? I was told a while ago that I was going to stay stuck in this godforsaken place until I grew old. Well, I really, _really_ don't want that for the rest of my life, so how do I get out of here?"

"I'm afraid escape is impossible for you," the Custodian sighed, "Until you die or someone else sets you free, you're stuck here. I am sorry to put it like that, but sugarcoating will not make it any easier. Soon, you will begin receiving orders and commands from an external source. You will be forced to give those orders to me because if you don't, your physical body will suffer and as a result, so will your mind here. Because you are the Commander of this ship, I am obligated to follow your every command. That is the way things have always been, though I have never really had to have taken a Commander under my wing in this way before. Commanders back in the old days were not permanently interred into the Throne; they could leave whenever they saw fit. This…you, I can tell, are different. You cannot leave. A most inhumane way to treat someone with the honor to sit in the Throne…"

Suddenly, Robin felt very strange. A hot, sticky feeling arose deep in his throat, slowly making its way higher and higher until it burst from his mouth in the form of words. They were raspy, ancient, mystical words, words of a long-forgotten language. The language of the Precursors, no doubt. Robin had no control over the words he was saying; they just flowed out.

After the flow of words finally ceased, Robin fell into a violent coughing fit for several minutes, regaining his breath. Before he could even ask the Custodian what the hell had just happened, the Asian man was already answering him.

"That, young one, was an order from the inner sanctum. Through you, someone has just ordered me to activate this ship's mining ray and direct it at the planet which we have arrived at. This is not a wise course of action—this colony-mine's mining ray is designed only for supernova stars, not planets. The results of such an action would be disastrous…but your manipulators are not listening to me. I must obey."

"Planet? What planet? Where are we; how could we be at a planet, I've only been here a few minutes."

"Time has little meaning in the mind," the Custodian said, "Years can pass in the blink of an eye, seconds can pass in several thousand. However, you have been here for approximately two of what your species calls 'weeks'."

"Two weeks?!" Robin exclaimed, standing up fast enough to fling the chair across the room, "I have to get out of here!"

"I told you, Robin, that is not possible," the Custodian rose as well, his voice growing deeper and darker, "Sit down."

"No," Robin replied, "I want my parents, I want my friends, I want my _life_ back!"

"Sit back down," the Custodian ordered.

"_No!_" Robin spun around and headed for the door. He tried to push it open, but found that the edges of the wooden door had fused to the rest of the wood. With the door out of the equation, he turned to the nearest window, but found that the windows all had iron bars crisscrossing them, preventing anything larger than a fist from poking through.

He began to get desperate. He needed to get out. In his mind's eye, he saw faces. He saw his parents, he saw Uncle Tyrone, he saw Jess… He had to get out. He would never see any of the ones whom he loved ever again if he did not escape. He turned back around from the barred window, but when he did he was suddenly no longer in the log cabin.

He was in a jail cell.

"Your mind has become agitated, young one," the Custodian—now dressed as a prison guard—informed Robin from beyond the bars, "That poses a threat to you and to me. Angry, destructive minds of Commanders can deal a lot of damage to this ship's structure and capability. Until you calm down, I must leave you here. I will see you again soon. Farewell."

With that, the Custodian vanished, leaving Robin alone to himself once more.

The twelve-year-old screamed, trapped in his own mind.


	63. Chapter 62: Comeback

Chapter Sixty-Two: Comeback

**0729 hours, November 29, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**UNSC _Blood and Iron_**

"Keep her steady, Mr. Sorrel," Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin murmured to his helmsmen. His grip on his armrests turned his knuckles bone-white as he watched Sigma Octanus IV grow larger and larger in the viewscreen. "What is our ETA to the planet's upper orbital reach?"

"Five minutes, sir," Lieutenant Sorrel replied.

"Fire control, I want our MAC gun charged and ready by the time we come within range," Al-Hassin ordered.

"Aye sir," Ensign Fitzpatrick said from the weapons station, "MAC cannon is at eighty-nine percent and rising at a rate of three percent per minute."

"Orders coming in from the _Constantinople_, admiral," Ensign Rush, the communications officer, reported, "Patching them through to your console."

Al-Hassin glanced at the formation orders from the UNSC _Constantinople_ as his COM officer sent them to the command console at his side.

The day before, the UNSC Seventh Fleet had been saved from certain destruction by the timely arrival of a Sangheili fleet. The Elites had broken the latest joint Tirque-Insurrectionist attack on Elpis, sending the surviving enemies retreating back towards the planet.

As the Seventh Fleet and the Sangheili fleet regrouped and joined forces, the Fourth and Thirteenth UNSC fleets—HIGHCOM's long-overdue reinforcements—had arrived in-system. After an hour, they had arrived at Elpis, combining into a large fleet of several hundred vessels. The three UNSC fleets still remained under the commands of their respective admirals, but all UNSC naval forces in the system as a whole had fallen under the authority of none other than Fleet Admiral Patrick Emerson, Commander in Chief of the whole UNSC military—Fleet Admiral Terrence Hood's replacement—who had arrived with the Fourth and Thirteenth Fleets on his flagship, the _Constantinople_.

Fleet Admiral Emerson had taken overall command of the system operation away from Al-Hassin with his arrival. The English language did not have words which could accurately convey how happy Al-Hassin had been to give it to him. Al-Hassin had been in command of a losing battle for much too long; he was weary, eager to pass on the responsibility to someone else. Now he could take his revenge on the Insurrectionists and their alien allies without having to worry about the battle as a whole.

The Insurrectionists and the aliens had met the UNSC fleets and the Sangheili vessels around halfway between Sigma Octanus IV and its moon. The aliens had seemed to have come expecting a mop-up more than a battle. Maybe they did not realize that more UNSC reinforcements have poured into the system. If that was the case, then it was an unforgivable lapse of intel on their part.

Throughout the night, the UNSC and Insurrectionists traded blows with each other, backed up by their respective allies. Slowly, gradually, the UNSC armada pushed the Insurrectionists back towards Sigma Octanus IV. By the time the sun was cresting around the edge of the world, Sigma Octanus IV was within arm's reach.

One last formation of Insurrectionist and Tirque ships remained between the UNSC fleets and the planet's orbital defense grid. As Al-Hassin watched the fleet formations in his command console, he saw the representations of UNSC ships fanning out in a large, umbrella-like formation, blanketing over and around the Insurrectionist defenders on this side of the planet.

Al-Hassin nodded approvingly. Fleet Admiral Emerson knew what he was doing. He was planning on crushing the enemy between a hammer and anvil—with the fleet spread out far enough, reinforced by the Sangheili, Emerson could slaughter anything that came too close or tried to charge him, and then slowly drive the rest of the enemy fleet back into the orbital defenses, where they would be chewed up by the super-MACs.

"MAC cannon at full charge, sir," Ensign Fitzgerald reported, "Waiting for your command.'

"Good," Al-Hassin nodded, "Helm, new course bearing three-four-seven, declination of zero-zero-four point eight-two-zero, and bring the reactors up to forty percent."

"Initializing course change," Lieutenant Sorrel confirmed, his fingers a blur as they entered the appropriate commands into his console.

"Scipio, identify the nearest Insurrectionist capital-class ship and calculate our ETA for the maximum weapons range for the MAC," Al-Hassin asked, keeping his eyes glued to the viewscreen in front.

"Target acquired," the shipboard AI replied, shimmering into appearance over the holopad next to Al-Hassin's command chair, "Nearest hostile capital ship is located bearing zero-three-seven. It is out of weapons range…our MAC will be in range in forty-seven seconds."

"Good. Send the coordinates to Mister Sorrel and execute the course correction. Fire control, charge up all archer missile pods. Remove all proximity safeties; it's going to get thick out there very soon."

"Weapons range in twenty seconds," Scipio called out, keeping a steady count.

"Bring all longsword squadrons up to full readiness," Al-Hassin ordered next, "I want our birds ready to deploy at a moment's notice."

"Relaying orders to the hangar bays…" Lieutenant Howell murmured.

"Ten seconds," Scipio hummed.

"Helm, bring reactors down to thirty-five percent."

"Thirty-five percent, aye," Lieutenant Sorrel obeyed.

Admiral Al-Hassin gradually leaned forward until he was hunched over his knees, drumming his fingers impatiently on the armrests of his command chair. The moment Scipio reported that the _Blood and Iron_ was within maximum range of the nearest Insurrectionist cruiser, Al-Hassin leaped at the chance. "Fire control, I need a firing solution on that hostile cruiser."

Ensign Fitzgerald complied, making the calculations and trajectory measures necessary for aiming the MAC cannon. "Firing solution plotted, sir."

"Lock solution into the targeting computer and fire," Al-Hassin ordered.

The fleet carrier shuddered as the MAC cannon fired, sending its payload flashing through space and into the hull of the Insurrectionist cruiser. The explosion was silhouetted against the blue and white swirls of Sigma Octanus IV's oceans.

There were many more explosions visible onscreen as the larger cruisers and carriers of the UNSC fleets opened fire with their MAC cannons, which could reach farther than those of smaller ships. Sizzling bluish-white streaks of plasma arced through space as the Sangheili ships fired their arsenals of plasma torpedoes. Silvery-purple particle superbeams also snapped through space from the Sangheili vessels' energy projectors.

At the same time, answering MAC rounds shot through space, accompanied by the crackling red energy beam weapons of the Tirque ships. The two navies edged closer and closer to each other, bridging the gulf between them until finally they intermingled and traded fire with each other close-up.

One of the largest Tirque vessels—clearly a flagship—drew up along the _Blood and Iron's_ port side, its many point-lateral laser cannons heating up as they prepared to fire.

"Launch all longsword units; get them out of here," Al-Hassin ordered. He turned quickly to his command console and brought up the area schematics, studying the white beacon which represented his ship and the assorted symbols which were all of the other vessels fighting all around him. He focused on one UNSC cruiser, the _Montezuma,_ which happened to be on the other side of the Tirque ship which was about to hit his flank. "Mister Rush, contact the _Montezuma_. Send them orders to attack that hostile contact to our port immediately. Helm, maneuver zero-zero-zero point zero-four, inclination of zero-zero-zero point three-zero, and bring the reactors down to thirty percent. We're going to take this nice and slow. Fire control, I want our missile pods ready to roll—_all_ of them. Scipio, take the plasma turrets, prepare to fire on my command!"

The bridge crew was sent into a frenzy of activity, following all of Al-Hassin's rapid-fire orders down to the letter.

"Sir, the _Montezuma_ is in position," Ensign Rush reported.

"That's affirm, sir," Commander Tomlinson confirmed the communications officer's statement.

"Give them the green light, Mister Rush," Al-Hassin ordered, "Our turn as well. Helm, make appropriate course corrections and bring us level with that Tirque ship, standard broadside maneuver. Scipio, you have your green light as well. Fire control, unleash everything we've got. Gut that alien son of a bitch."

The fleet carrier trembled as its entire arsenal of currently-loaded archer missiles streaked out of their pods, screaming towards the Tirque ship. Searing white bolts of plasma leaped from their modified turrets, set into the top of the _Blood and Iron_, lancing into the Tirque ship's hull, tearing great scars into its side.

"Enemy ship is firing lasers!" Commander Tomlinson exclaimed.

"Brace for impact!" Al-Hassin shouted, belting himself into his chair. "Reinforce all bulkheads and seal all hatches!"

"Laser impact…now!"

The _Blood and Iron_ shook violently as the Tirque ship's lasers bore into her portside lateral armor, cutting large swathes into the fleet carrier's superstructure. Lieutenant Howell and Ensign Rush were thrown from their stations, slamming into the bulkhead which formed one of the bridge's walls.

The lights in the bridge flickered and went dead, plunging the command center of the fleet carrier into near-total darkness, illuminated only by the meager luminescence of the consoles. The backup lights kicked in several seconds later, bathing the bridge in an almost hellish red glow.

"Damage report!" Al-Hassin barked, tenderly massaging the bruises which were blossoming on his shoulder and arm, both of which had been injured by the blast.

Lieutenant Howell struggled back into his chair. One of his arms was bent at an awkward angle and he had blood dripping down the side of his face, but he was still able to carry out his duties. "We've lost nearly all far portside sections, lateral armor down to twenty-two percent. We're venting atmosphere and fires are spreading. Casualty reports coming in now…that hit really cost us, sir."

"We've survived too long and too much to get slaughtered here," Al-Hassin declared, unstrapping himself and standing up, stepping down from the command platform. "Get all damage control parties to those sections and get those fires out."

Al-Hassin watched the viewscreen as the volley of archer missiles hit the Tirque ship. The external armor of the opposing vessel was ripped to shreds under the fury of the hundreds of high-explosive anti-ship ordinance, exposing the underlying structure. Dozens of mini-explosions erupted all over the sides of the Tirque ship as the rapidly decompressing atmosphere ignited, blowing out good-sized chunks of the hull.

Despite the damage, the Tirque vessel was still functioning. The _Blood and Iron_ might as well have shot sticks and rocks at it.

"Admiral, sir, enemy ship is charging up for another volley," Commander Tomlinson warned.

"Admiral, our odds of surviving another hit to our portside armor is…" Scipio hesitated, uncomfortably adjusting his plumed helmet, "Well, they are not very good. Closer to nil than anything else."

"Than we will not let them hit us there," Al-Hassin replied, pacing over to Lieutenant Sorrel's helm console, leaning over the chair so that he could see the controls. "Those alien bastards have good ships, but poor tactics. Their strategies are two-dimensional; they fight as if we are confined to a single plane. While we were at Elpis we could not exploit that because of the moon's erratic gravity well, but here…_here_ we can do some damage… Scipio, what's the status on our ventral docking thrusters? Are they still intact?"

"Scanning…" the smart AI paused for a microsecond, "Affirmative. All docking thrusters are functioning normally."

"Good," Al-Hassin nodded with a sigh of relief. Those thrusters would be vital to his plan.

"Laser volley in forty-five seconds!" Commander Tomlinson exclaimed, "Admiral, if you're planning to do something, _anything_, do it now!"

"Your recommendation has been acknowledged and noted, Commander," Al-Hassin retorted. His tone was clear: _Shut the hell up and let me do my job_. "Mister Sorrel, kill the engines, halt all forward momentum."

"Aye, sir, all stop…" Lieutenant Sorrel quickly obeyed his commander's orders.

"Mister Rush, contact the _Montezuma_; tell Admiral Struthers to pull back to a safe distance. Have him plot a firing solution on the Tirque vessel for his MAC cannon, and tell him to hold his fire until I give him the go-ahead."

"Relaying orders, sir," Ensign Rush said. "Admiral Struthers reports that the _Montezuma_ got hammered by the laser barrage as well, but she'll be able to pull through. He has the _Southern Pride_ and the _Bloody Sunday_ coming in for backup, just in case."

Al-Hassin shrugged. "The only way their services would be required is if we fail, in which case we will no longer be alive. And we are not going to fail."

"Laser barrage in fifteen seconds!" Commander Tomlinson reported.

"Keep her steady…" Al-Hassin murmured, "Steady…"

"Admiral, laser barrage in ten seconds!"

"Steady! Helm, prepare to fire ventral docking thrusters on my command!"

"Five seconds!" Tomlinson shouted.

"_On my command_, Mister Sorrel!"

"Four…three…two…"

"Docking thrusters, _now!_" Admiral Al-Hassin thundered, "Divert all secondary power to those thrusters, even if it sends them into the red!"

"Docking thrusters engaged," Lieutenant Sorrel murmured, keeping a close eye on his console, "Pushing them to maximum…"

"Sir, reactor temperatures are rising past critical levels!" Lieutenant Howell exclaimed, "Estimated meltdown in fifteen seconds!"

"Vent primary coolant and pump in the secondaries," Al-Hassin ordered, "That'll buy us some time."

"Aye, sir…coolant vented, bringing in backup coolant…reactor temperature falling…we're in the clear, sir, for now," Howell declared. The red light reflected off the sheen of sweat which had accumulated on the operations officer's forehead. He wiped it away with his sleeve, taking deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down.

"Laser barrage imminent! They're firing!" Commander Tomlinson cried.

"Mister Sorrel, blow all portside lateral emergency thrusters, make them fire downwards!" Al-Hassin shouted to his helmsman, returning to his command seat. He strapped himself in; this next part was going to get a little crazy.

"Sir?" Lieutenant Sorrel hesitated for a second, but shrugged and quickly input the commands. The ship was about to be hit by laserfire; at this point if Al-Hassin had told him to strip down to his underwear and do the chicken dance in order to save the _Blood and Iron_ he would have done it immediately and without question. If this last order seemed a little unusual or pointless…no one had anything to lose.

"Thrusters blown…_whoa_-"

The _Blood and Iron_ was thrown into a dizzying, ship-wide barrel-roll along its horizontal axis, sending it in a tight arc over the top of the Tirque ship.

The laser barrage roiled out harmlessly into space. The _Blood and Iron's_ maneuver had pushed the fleet carrier just out of the Tirque laser projectors' trajectories. The Tirque clearly had not expected that; their ship began to break off; trying to intercept the _Blood and Iron_, but the UNSC fleet carrier was moving too fast.

Al-Hassin held on, watching the viewscreen as space and Sigma Octanus IV spun around and around. He was grateful that the _Blood and Iron_ was spinning round and round in a zero-gee environment. Had it been in a gravity well, the walls of every corridor would have been pasted with vomit. Because it was happening in a vacuum, no one aboard could feel the spin as much, though centrifugal force was wreaking havoc with the ship's internal artificial gravity systems.

"Switch to top-view," Al-Hassin ordered, "Scipio, warm up the plasma turrets! This has to be perfect!"

The viewscreen switched to a view of what was beyond the top of the _Blood and Iron_. The golden armor of the Tirque ship slowly passed into and from view as the _Blood and Iron_ spun over the top of the enemy vessel. Al-Hassin waited for the _Blood and Iron_ to spin one more time. When the top of the fleet carrier was facing the top of the Tirque vessel once more, the two ships were nearly flush with each other.

"Fire!" Al-Hassin ordered.

"Plasma turrets firing," Scipio announced cheerfully.

Half a dozen searing beams of bright white snapped out of the plasma turrets, which were mounted on top of the _Blood and Iron_, and so were firing downward, straight into the top of the Tirque ship.

The Tirque ship's upper armor had already been weakened by the attacks the vessel had sustained on both sides from the _Blood and Iron_ and the _Montezuma_. Under the concentrated plasma from the UNSC fleet carrier's turrets, it broke apart very easily. UNSC plasma turrets were inferior to their Sangheili counterparts, but UNSC artificial intelligences knew how to utilize them far more effectively. While normal plasma torpedoes would have melted the outer armor and caused significant external damage; thinner, more concentrated bolts—under the careful guidance of an AI—could slice much further into a ship and cause heavy internal damage. During the Great War, UNSC AIs had actually been able to use Covenant plasma turrets to quite literally slice enemy ships to pieces as delicately as cutting into a cake, rather than melt and burn them and make a general mess of things.

The Tirque vessels were much tougher than the old Covenant ones had been, so the beams did not cut the ship into pieces, but they did cut very far into the enemy ship's superstructure. Dozens more explosions mushroomed out from orifices all over the Tirque ship. It began to list heavily, spinning out of control.

"Mister Rush, give the _Montezuma_ its green light; this is as good a chance as they're going to get!" Al-Hassin shouted his order.

"Aye, sir, transmitting…" Ensign Rush sent Admiral Al-Hassin's order to the UNSC _Montezuma_, which was waiting nearby to fire its MAC cannon. "Orders sent and received by Admiral Struthers."

There was a distant flash briefly visible as the _Montezuma _fired its forward MAC. The super-heavy, depleted uranium slug punched right through the Tirque ship's frontal starboard armor. It was able to tear through the already-weakened interior of the alien flagship with relative ease. There was a brilliant explosion at the rear of the conical Tirque flagship as the MAC round tore its way free through the alien vessel's engines. Somewhere along the way the round must have hit something critical, for the small explosions occurring all over the ship's hull began to grow larger and more frequent until, finally, the entire ship was blown apart by a final, titanic conflagration.

Al-Hassin was temporarily blinded by the ensuing white flash, but the _Blood and Iron's _spin sent the burning wreckage spiraling out of view.

"Mister Sorrel, engage the starboard thrusters, level us out," Al-Hassin ordered, "Stop this damn spinning."

The _Blood and Iron_ stabilized, ceasing its spin, leveling out above the wreckage of the Tirque flagship. Al-Hassin rested his head back onto the back of his chair, releasing part of the breath he had been holding for the past several weeks.

"Did…" Lieutenant Sorrel took a moment to collect himself, the words having trouble coming from his mouth, "Did we…did we really just do that?" the helmsman stammered, gesturing to the wreckage of the Tirque flagship on the viewscreen.

No one answered. All of the bridge officers were still coming to terms with the fact that, somehow, they were all still alive.

Suddenly, Commander Tomlinson's console began to emit a loud, beeping alarm. The exec quickly shut it off, and then checked to discern the reason why it had gone off. His shoulders sagged visibly and his face went downcast. "Uh…sir, another Tirque vessel has us in its sights and is powering up its forward energy weapon. It will hit us in our portside lateral armor…we won't survive the hit."

Al-Hassin was silent, almost uncomprehending. _Well, that's hardly fair_… some part of his mind sighed. It wasn't fair, to survive everything for so long, only to be taken out by a potshot to the side. He opened his mouth to order all crew to the lifepods, but closed it a second later. There was no point; the hit would come too soon.

Well even so, Al-Hassin did not intend to go down without a fight. "All ahead full!" the admiral ordered, "Reverse portside thrusters; bring us about to face the bastards. Fire control, I need the MAC cannon five minutes ago."

"Aye, sir," the helmsman and the weapons officer both chorused, almost in perfect unison.

The Tirque ship—smaller than the flagship, but by no means any less dangerous—came into view. Its energy beam weapon mounted at the very nose of the ship was charging up, going from a deep red hue to a fierce pink, on its way to the blinding white which would signal full charge.

"MAC cannon capacitators at ninety-two percent!" Ensign Fitzgerald reported.

Too slow.

"Divert all available power to the MAC!" Al-Hassin ordered, "Even life support—we won't be needing it anymore."

"Diverting power, aye," Lieutenant Howell nodded, more to himself than to Al-Hassin. The operations officer quickly ensured that all power was diverted to the single and sole task of bringing the MAC cannon up to full charge.

"MAC cannon at ninety-eight percent and rising!" Fitzgerald called out. "Firing solution plotted and locked in!"

Despite the MAC cannon's significantly heightened charge time, it was still too slow. The crackling aura about the Tirque ship's energy weapon turned a bright white.

It opened fire.

The roiling beam of red energy sped through the gap between its projector and the _Blood and Iron_. Al-Hassin watched it approach, steeling himself for the end. All his emotions washed away, leaving him with a numb, vacuum-like feeling. He was ready.

Suddenly, the red beam winked out of existence, vanishing as the power to its projector was cut off.

"What the-" Commander Tomlinson blurted out, but the cause of the energy beam's disappearance became apparent a second later as the viewscreen adjusted to the sight.

A thin, bright, silvery-purple particle beam of highly-concentrated energized matter was boring right out of the front of the Tirque vessel. It did not directly destroy the forward energy beam weapon, but it did render it useless. The particle beam intensified and thickened, quickly becoming too bright to look at. Finally, the Tirque ship broke apart, having been gutted stem to stern by the particle beam.

As the pieces of the wreckage drifted away, the source of the particle beam which had signed its death warrant pushed through. It was a Sangheili assault carrier—identified by local COM chatter as the _Divine Radiance_, one of the command vessels of the Sangheili fleet. The assault carrier must have been behind the Tirque vessel when it fired its forward energy projector. The particle beam had seared right into the Tirque ship's engines, burning right through the central spine of the ship until it burst out of the very front. No better way to permanently decommission one of the alien machines.

"Send that Elite ship our thanks," Al-Hassin ordered his communications officer. "Broaden our sensor scans; get me a status update on the battle around us. We kind of lost track back there. Oh, and I think it would be a good idea to restore our life support; we'll be hanging around a little while longer."

"Yes, sir!" Lieutenant Howell carried out this last order with considerably more enthusiasm than before.

As the _Blood and Iron_ cleared the wreckage of the last ship which had tried to kill it, drawing up alongside of the Sangheili assault carrier, the results of the latest engagement became apparent. Not many Insurrectionist ships remained intact; they did not have the durability of their Tirque allies. Many UNSC and Sangheili ships drifted through space, either disabled or destroyed. Many had been lost in this last attack, but Al-Hassin could see that the Allied UNSC-Sangheili fleets had been able to establish a standard orbit over Sigma Octanus IV.

After several weeks of exile in orbit over Elpis, Al-Hassin had finally made good on his earlier promise. He had returned.

"Reestablish contact with our ground forces," Al-Hassin ordered Ensign Rush, "Contact their central command; I want to hear that Scottish son of a bitch's voice."

"COM channel established, isolating First Expeditionary Force ground signals, triangulating…patching the link through to your console, sir."

The COM in Al-Hassin's command console crackled and a raspy voice issued through. "Unidentified signal, please acknowledge and identify yoourself," the voice demanded, "Acknowledge or we will instigate-'

"Son, this is Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin, UNSC Seventh Fleet; put General McCandlish on the line," Al-Hassin ordered.

"Admiral Al-Hassin?" the voice sounded startled, but it quickly withdrew. There was a shuffling noise as the line was patched through to another receptacle down on the surface.

"Rashid? Rashid, are you there?" another voice came through. It was a deep, authoritative voice, laden with a Scottish brogue. That voice was unmistakable.

"General McCandlish," Al-Hassin greeted his counterpart on the ground, "It is good to hear your voice again."

"Well I'll be damned…" the commander of the First Expeditionary Force murmured, "You managed to fight through the Insurrectionist blockades? You must be one helluva commander; are you in orbit right now?"

"That's affirm, General," Al-Hassin replied. The Admiral frowned as he noted where the signal was coming from. "Ian, why is your signal coming from the Black Hills? What happened to your old position in Côte d'Azur?"

"Long story, Rashid, long story with not enough time to tell it all."

Al-Hassin shrugged and proceeded to give McCandlish the most thorough situation report on the battles in space, informing him that the Elites were present as well. "In the area of ground troops, we have a significant number of Elite commandoes with us, as well as most of the Second Expeditionary Force. They are being deployed near your position as we speak."

"What about your ODSTs, are they still aboard?" McCandlish asked.

"Affirmative."

"Good, we could use their help right away," McCandlish quickly explained how his forces were currently engaged in a counterattack against the Insurrectionist ground troops, highlighting the situation around Mount Araquiel. "I'm sending drop coordinates to you right now; we could really use those ODSTs on the ground."

"Coordinates received, sir," Commander Tomlinson confirmed.

Al-Hassin cleared up several last-minute affairs with McCandlish before killing the channel. He turned to Commander Tomlinson and ordered him to have the _Blood and Iron's_ complement of ODSTs—who had been stuck on the fleet carrier ever since the Insurrectionist armada had driven the Seventh Fleet back to Elpis at the very beginning—to the drop bays. Ten minutes later, coordinating with the marines on the ground, all of the ODSTs were launched into the planet's atmosphere. Dozens of tiny, blazing stars, set alight by the heat of reentry, descended towards the surface.

For the next few minutes, the allied fleets in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV regrouped, getting ready to hit the remnants of the Insurrectionists and the Tirque navies again. The enemy ships had formed up over the prime meridian of Sigma Octanus IV, just around the horizon from the UNSC-Sangheili fleet.

"Receiving orders from the _Constantinople_…" Ensign Rush said, decrypting the transmissions being sent by the UNSC flagship, "Fleet Admiral Emerson is ordering our fleet to form the right vanguard and advance on the enemy fleet. The Elites are functioning as the central advance; we'll be advancing next to them."

"Mister Sorrel, bring us into position."

"Admiral, I'm picking up strange readings from the enemy positions…" Commander Tomlinson reported hesitantly, trying to isolate the signals and data streaming through his console. "It's a slipspace signature, sir…a _big_ one…"

"Anything from Archimedes RSO?" Al-Hassin asked.

"No, sir, whatever this thing is, it slipped right by Archimedes Outpost," Ensign Rush replied.

"Wouldn't be the first time..." Al-Hassin muttered darkly.

"Coming into view now, sir," Commander Tomlinson said, manipulating the controls for the viewscreen. The image magnified by several times, showing the formations of Insurrectionist and Tirque ships, which were also reforming. However, what caught the bridge crew's attention were not the enemy ships, but the slipspace rupture opening up behind them.

The purple-white rupture was massive, at least twenty kilometers in diameter, probably even wider. The bridge crew of the _Blood and Iron_—and no doubt every bridge crew in every other ship—watched slack-jawed as…_something_…emerged from the rupture.

"Jesus Christ, it's _huge_…" Lieutenant Sorrel whispered.

"Tomlinson, get our long-range sensors on that…that…_thing_; I want to know everything we can about it right now," Admiral Al-Hassin ordered. "Get our ONI liaison up here immediately."

From the rupture, what appeared to be a ship had emerged. The ship was _massive_, nearly two-dozen kilometers in height along its central axis. It was tetrahedral in shape, possessing four long, outlying arms which all came together in a spherical, central section.

"Looks just like that Forerunner dreadnought ship from Mombasa, at the end of the Great War," Tomlinson observed. Al-Hassin found himself agreeing—he and Tomlinson were the only two bridge officers on the _Blood and Iron_ who were old enough to have been present at that last, fateful battle in New Mombasa before the Portal to the Ark had been activated. The deed had been done by a giant Forerunner dreadnought ship. The massive ship in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV had the same shape as that Forerunner ship did, but it was much larger, and its design seemed somehow older, more ancient.

"What the hell _is_ that thing?" Rush asked the question on all of the officers' minds. He returned his attention to the COM console, picking up a transmission from the _Constantinople_. "Sir, Fleet Admiral Emerson is ordering us to halt our advance."

"All stop," Al-Hassin ordered.

"All stop, aye," Lieutenant Sorrel entered in the commands, killing the ship's engines.

Right then, the entrance to the bridge hissed open and a tall, pale man dressed in a black uniform bearing a full colonel's bird insignia on his cap and shoulder straps, as well as the ONI symbol and motto, strode in.

"Colonel Angiers," Al-Hassin greeted his ONI liaison, wasting no time with formalities and proper protocol. He pointed at the massive, tetrahedral ship which dominated the viewscreen. "Why don't you tell me what the hell that thing is?"


	64. Chapter 63: Conclave

Chapter Sixty-Three: Conclave

**2000 hours, November 29, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Sangheili Supercarrier **_**Resplendent Rapture**_

Admiral Rashid Al-Hassin watched as the massive Sangheili flagship grew larger in the porthole as the pelican he was on board drew closer. It was a supercarrier, comprising of many of the trademark purple, bulbous sections, giving it the appearance of something resembling a massive whale. It was even larger than the Sangheili assault carriers, which were over five kilometers long—it was, without a doubt, the largest ship in the Sangheili Navy.

Supercarriers such as the one Al-Hassin was heading towards had fought as part of the Covenant Navy against the UNSC during the Great War, but Al-Hassin had never actually come up against or even _seen_ one before. Until now.

Over twenty minutes ago, Al-Hassin had been in the bridge of his fleet carrier, the _Blood and Iron_. The UNSC-Sangheili Fleet had broken the back of the enemy Insurrectionist and Tirque naval forces arrayed against them, driving them away to an isolated location in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV. Everything had been going perfectly, until a slipspace rupture had appeared.

Now, a gigantic, tetrahedral supership was in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV. A small assault had been launched against it, but that attack had been rebuffed with no effort at all. The tetrahedral ship had not even fought back; it was impervious to anything the UNSC or Sangheili could fire at it. It had simply sat there and batted away the punishment, waiting for the attackers to give up and turn back, which they eventually did.

Al-Hassin had watched the UNSC ships return to the main formation. As he and his crew awaited orders from Fleet Admiral Emerson, something had begun to happen. A faint, shimmering, translucent orange beam had shimmered into appearance, emanating from the central sphere of the tetrahedral supership and stretching down into Sigma Octanus IV's atmosphere, where it vanished from view. Al-Hassin could tell that it was still present, stretching through the atmosphere and down to the surface, but the visual sensors were not able to pick it up through the planet's ionosphere.

"Mister Tomlinson, activate our long-range scanners," Al-Hassin ordered, "What is that ship doing?"

"I'm…not quite sure, sir," Commander Tomlinson murmured, trying to narrow down the focus of his sensors in order to get a better scan of the strange orange beam. "It appears to be some sort of…_no, that's not it_…" the exec murmured to himself, before looking up and giving a shrug, "I don't know, sir. Whatever that beam is, it's not a weapon…but it's not a mere scanning device or sensor sweep either…that ship's technology is almost beyond comprehension."

"What effect is it having on the planet?" Al-Hassin asked next. "We definitely know that something like that is not for decoration; it is _doing_ something…"

"Unknown, sir," Commander Tomlinson reported as he redirected the range of the ship's sensors to scan the planet below, "I can't read anything out of the…hold a second…_now,_ _what is going on here_…"

"Commander?" Al-Hassin cleared his throat, catching Tomlinson's attention as the exec began to become engrossed in the data he was receiving.

"Sir, I'm picking up unusual seismic activity along the western continental fault lines of the Alsace landmass…" Tomlinson observed, "Observation outposts stations have been notified… The seismic activity is continuing. Activity is also being recorded in the volcanoes of the eastern archipelagos…"

"What? Those volcanoes are supposed to be dormant," Lieutenant Howell said, frowning with confusion.

"I know," Tomlinson replied, "But these sensors don't lie. Seismic activity is beginning to show all across the globe now. Nothing serious, but it's not natural. It has to be because of that beam; it's doing something with the planet's core…I'm going to need more time to perform a full diagnostic."

"Keep me posted," Al-Hassin had told his first officer.

Now, fifteen or twenty minutes later, Admiral Al-Hassin found himself on a pelican, bound for the Sangheili supercarrier. Fleet Admiral Emerson had ordered his three subordinate fleet commanders to rendezvous aboard the supercarrier to meet with the Sangheili commanders in order to address the new threat of the ancient tetrahedral supership.

"Coming up on the supercarrier's aft hangar bay," the flight officer who was piloting the pelican reported, "Switching to manual, ETA: one minute."

Al-Hassin watched through the windows as the entrance to the supercarrier's hangar drew in close. The Sangheili vessel itself already filled the entire cockpit window. Al-Hassin could not help but marvel at how enormous the Elite ships could be. The only time he had ever been on board a Sangheili ship had been at the end of the Great War when his frigate—the _Aegis Fate_—had been brought into the hangar of the Covenant Separatist assault carrier which had been present for the Battle of Voi. He had been in as much awe then as he was now at how huge the alien ships were, compared to their UNSC counterparts.

"Initializing docking procedures," the pilot said, "Docking thrusters engaged."

Admiral Al-Hassin took his leave and ducked into the troop bay of the pelican. Colonel Angiers was already getting to his feet. The ONI officer offered Al-Hassin a deft nod as he holstered his magnum sidearm.

The third man in the troop bay was also somewhat pale with cold, icy-gray eyes and some slight facial hair about his chin, the only remaining evidence of his month of captivity spent in an Illuminati prison. He swung himself off of the bench and got to his feet, running a hand through his dark, close-cropped hair. He acknowledged the UNSC admiral with a nod as well.

Al-Hassin did not return the gesture. The admiral did not trust the man, and he made no effort to conceal that fact. "Mister O'Riley, I don't trust you," Al-Hassin stated, steadying himself as the pelican lurched when it finally docked, "I'm sure you realize that. No one trusts you, but you are arguably the one who knows the most about that thing that's messing with the planet below. That makes you valuable, and that is the only reason why you're not still in my brig."

"I am aware of the fact," Liam O'Riley, former Deputy Director of Shade Branch of the Magisterial Special Operations division on Nemesis III, replied dryly.

Al-Hassin was not yet finished. His face darkened a tad bit and he leaned in close, speaking softly into O'Riley's ear. "Know this, however. You will be addressing the highest-ranking commanders of the forces which can potentially put a stop to the Insurrectionists and their alien allies. We will be acting off of what you say. If you mislead us, if you lie to us, if you betray us; if you so much as falsify a _single_ detail about that alien ship, I will personally have you buried. Colonel Angiers over there, and the people he works with; they will make you vanish. Do we understand each other?"

"Clear as sunlight, sir," O'Riley replied, careful to keep his voice neutral.

Al-Hassin nodded, satisfied that his message had been adequately received. "Good. On the flipside, if you are who you say you are; if you really mean to help us…well, I'll thank you when that alien ship goes up in flames. Don't botch this, O'Riley. You are a tainted man…help us through this and you just might wipe your slate clean."

The deployment ramp hissed and retracted, allowing Al-Hassin, Angiers, and O'Riley to exit the pelican and step into the aft hangar bay of the Sangheili supercarrier flagship. The hangar bay was massive, over a kilometer long. It was somewhat empty now; previously it would have been filled with seraphs, phantoms, and other vehicles waiting for deployment, but most—if not all—of the ground troops who had been stationed on the supercarrier had already been sent planetside to assist the marines in the Black Hills.

A pair of red-armored Sangheili majors had been waiting to receive the new arrivals. They both offered quick Sangheili salutes to Al-Hassin, recognizing the middle-aged Arab as an individual of rank and respect.

A second pelican drew into the hangar bay and powered down as the two domo majors greeted the UNSC admiral. Its deployment ramp extended and its rear hatch unsealed, sliding open. From within, half a dozen tall figures, clad in full MJOLNIR power armor, came marching out.

Spartans.

All six of the supersoldiers stopped dead in their tracks at the sight of Admiral Al-Hassin, bringing their hands up to their foreheads in unison in a collective salute; a loud, dull thud vibrating through the floor as their heels clicked to attention.

"At ease," Al-Hassin nodded to the Spartans.

The two Sangheili exchanged sidelong glances, one of them murmuring the word _'demons'_ in a barely audible tone. An admiration glinted in their eyes and their movements were slower, more respectful. "Humans," one of the domo majors rumbled in his low, gravelly voice, "You are the last of the Conclave of War to arrive. Follow," the major gestured for the UNSC arrivals to accompany him.

Al-Hassin was right behind the two Elites, following them across a large expanse of the hangar bay to one of the nearest gravity lifts. After everyone had piled in, one of the Elites muttered a quiet command in its native language. The gravity lift came to life and sent its riders on a speedy journey into the depths of the supercarrier. The ride took nearly a minute.

When the lift neared its destination, it slowed considerably, decelerating until it came to a full halt. A set of doors hissed open, allowing the eleven individuals inside to step out into the corridor beyond. The two Elites led their charges through several corridors until they came to a stop in front of a large door. Several guards already stood outside, signifying that whatever was going on beyond the doors was rather important.

"We can proceed no further," one of the majors informed Al-Hassin and his subordinates, "But you may enter. Go."

The door let out a slight hiss and split into quarters, each part sliding up and away, allowing the new arrivals to enter. Once the last Spartan walked through, the door sealed itself up tight once more.

The room was hemispherical, its rounded, curving walls the same purple alloy which made up the rest of the ship. In the center was a large table. That table had holographic capability and also doubled as a platform from which a central speaker could address all those seated around. From that spot, a holo-projector set into the ceiling could be manipulated, as well as other room controls. Seated around this platform were the other commanders of the UNSC and Sangheili forces present in the system. Absent were the commanders of the ground forces—they were too busy with the ongoing counterattack in the Black Hills.

Al-Hassin recognized all of his UNSC comrades. He saw Fleet Admiral Patrick Emerson sitting at the opposite side of the table, waiting patiently for the briefing to begin. Also present were Admiral Friedrich Jaeger, the commander of the Fourth Fleet, and Admiral Martin Halford, the commander of the Thirteenth Fleet. They all greeted Al-Hassin with friendly nods.

Seated with their UNSC counterparts were the Sangheili commanders. There were three Elites present who were clad in the golden armor of the rank of zealot. Al-Hassin recognized one of them as the Sangheili with whom he had conversed not long after the Sangheili fleet had slipped in-system. It had been that particular Fleet Master's ship which had saved his own at one point during the drive to Sigma Octanus IV.

One more Sangheili commander was also present at the table. He sat next to Fleet Admiral Emerson. This Sangheili wore a simple, deep purple-hued armor, but it was clear that he was the one in charge. He was most likely the overall commander of the entire Sangheili fleet present—Al-Hassin did not remember the name of the rank off the top of his head. Supreme Commander, he thought it was.

Another Sangheili with deep brown skin laden with scars, clad in battered silver armor also sat at the table. He must have been the commander of all of the Sangheili Spec Ops troops who were arrayed behind and around the table, keeping a respectful distance and remaining in the background.

Al-Hassin also caught sight of one last Sangheili who was standing off in the back of the room, quietly observing the proceedings. He wore an older, ancient-looking armor. Though his skin had turned slightly grayer since Al-Hassin had last seen him, the UNSC admiral recognized that Elite and his armor in a heartbeat. He was the one whom the Elites called 'Arbiter'. At the end of the Great War, he had also been present at the briefing which had taken place on the Separatist assault carrier just before the joint UNSC-Sangheili forces had gone through the Portal. It had been his advice which had deterred the Sangheili Separatist Fleet Master from glassing all of the Earth in response to the Flood incursion. Humanity had since had a deep-seated respect for him. Since the Great War, he had kept his title and position, serving as one of the main bridges between the Humans and Sangheili.

"Rashid," Fleet Admiral Emerson gestured for Al-Hassin to take a seat and the lone remaining place at the table, "Have a seat and we may begin."

Admiral Al-Hassin obliged his superior, sliding into the chair, exchanging salutes and respectful gestures with the Sangheili leaders. The six Spartan-IIIs accompanying him fanned out and stood with the black-armored Sangheili Spec Ops troops. This was fitting; the Sangheili Spec Ops were the closest the Elites had to equivalents of the UNSC Spartans.

"Colonel Angiers, if you would," Fleet Admiral Emerson gestured for the ONI officer to start.

"Thank you, sir," Angiers gave a quick nod and moved around the table to the small ramp which led to the top of the platform in the centre. When he stepped up to the platform, he began to speak. "Admirals, Fleet Masters," Angiers acknowledged the commanders present around the table, "What is about to be said in here is of the highest possible importance. Everything I have to say can be better explained by the person who explained it all to me, so I will turn this over to our source of intel."

Angiers motioned for O'Riley to step up onto the platform. The ONI officer returned to his previous spot behind Admiral Al-Hassin's chair after O'Riley took the floor.

O'Riley did not waste time with greetings or protocol, preferring instead to dive into the issue headfirst. "Can I have an image of the Precursor ship, please?" O'Riley asked. When he received only blank stares in response, he rolled his eyes and clarified his request. "The huge alien thing outside which is the reason why we're all here."

Almost immediately, a startlingly realistic hologram of the tetrahedral supership in league with the Insurrectionists and the Tirque appeared, slowly revolving in place. O'Riley gazed at it for several seconds, running a hand through one of its arms, watching as the image shimmered slightly to his touch. "This, my friends, is a Precursor stellar-mining vessel. To clear matters up beforehand, we do not know who built this ship," O'Riley gestured to the holographic tetrahedral vessel, "It was created by an ancient civilization that was hyper-advanced in terms of technology and evolution. This ship predates any of the Forerunner artifacts we have stumbled across—the only reason it is still around is because it was ensconced in a slipspace bubble for God knows how long, which is actually the perfect way to preserve something; removing it from time and space completely. We do not know anything else substantial about this species, not even their name."

"They are these 'Precursors' you mentioned, I am assuming?" Fleet Admiral Emerson interjected.

O'Riley nodded, "Yes. They were even more advanced than the Forerunners were, able to even speed up the evolution of intelligent life and travel to different galaxies…but I digress. We are not here to speak of their possible achievements. This ship here once functioned as a stellar-mining vessel. It had been utilized by the Precursors at one time to acquire a certain material from the cores of dying supernovas. This was done by…well, I'm not sure exactly _how_ the mechanism worked—I'm no scientist—but it involved some form of energy extraction process using tachyon beams, charged with a subatomic catalyst which would serve to actually extract that specific material from the rest of the makeup of the star. The material would be efficiently pulled out of the star, which would soon collapse anyway. Everybody won."

"And if that mining mechanism was turned on something such as a planet…" one of the zealots murmured.

A ghost of a grin flitted across O'Riley's face. His audience caught on fast. "It was not at all far-fetched to think of using the mining feature as a weapon. To be honest, no one knew what would happen when the Precursor ship's mining capabilities were used on a planet, but nothing good could possibly come from it. It was a given fact that that if this technology was used on a planet, that planet would be destroyed—the intellectuals simply did not know specifically _how_. The Precursor ship in orbit around Sigma Octanus IV has been using the mining beam for some time now, and the effects are becoming apparent. It is not an instantaneous effect—thank the powers that be—but it is not a slow one either. Seismic activity has been registering all over the globe, and is increasing every minute. Volcanic activity is being reported in many extinct and dormant regions on the planet, every fault line is shifting…that mining beam is agitating the planet's core somehow. Soon, Sigma Octanus IV will quite literally shake itself to pieces."

"Back up a second," Fleet Admiral Emerson interrupted. The older Fleet Admiral ran a hand through his iron-gray hair, coming to a rest on the bridge of his nose. "You mentioned not being able to test this Precursor weapon prior to now. You also implied that you have had it in your possession for quite some time; why has it taken this long for you to use it? If I had been in possession of a weapon with this type of power, I would have leapt at the very first chance."

O'Riley input several commands into the controls for the holo-projector set into the ceiling which was projecting the image of the Precursor ship. The image of the tetrahedral supership faded away and vanished. It was replaced by a new image; a life-sized hologram of a young boy, eleven or twelve years old by the looks of him. The child was thin—almost to the point of skinny; he had shortish, sandy hair which was beginning to reach down to his ears and brush his eyes, pale skin, small nose and mouth—which was curved in a wry grin—and larger eyes. The eyes were a harsh shade of electric blue which the holographic simulator replicated rather well. They almost seemed to stare right through whatever they were looking at.

Two of the silent, faceless Spartan-IIIs shifted suddenly when the image appeared, visibly affected by its presence. O'Riley was also affected as well, even though he had known it was coming. His face flushed, turning a light shade of red at the sight of the boy whom he had kidnapped four months ago. The former deputy director of Shade Branch had changed since then, but that did not erase his past sins. Whatever happened to the boy was on his fault. The boy's blood would be on his hands if he died.

"_He_ is the reason why it has taken so long," O'Riley nodded to the image of the twelve-year-old child, "His name is Robin Ambrose, twelve years old. The Precursors were a psychic race; their ships—specifically the mining vessel—need to be commanded and operated by an adept, someone with some sort of…I can't explain it. Normal men are unable to command the Precursor ship; it will not respond to them…that is not true for Robin Ambrose. This boy alone-" O'Riley gestured again to the image of Robin Ambrose, "is able to command the ship. Because of reasons I am not at liberty to disclose, he was born with an…" the former Insurrectionist searched for the right word, "…_altered_…yes, a genetically altered brain—'mutated' would be a much cruder way to put it. In any case, he is able to use many parts of his brain which are supposed to be dormant. In a nutshell, this gives him the ability to interact and command the Precursor ship. We had to wait until we…ehm…_acquired_ him…before we could send the Precursor ship into battle."

"Basically, when you boil it all down, this…Precursor ship is one huge planet-killer? What were your people planning on using it for in the long run?" Fleet Admiral Emerson asked next, seeking to answer one of the many unanswered questions which had been lingering about for a long time.

"Sigma Octanus IV is the test," O'Riley replied. "My people planned on first using the Precursor ship against this planet to evaluate its performance, as well as see first-hand how it operated and what it wrought. Once that data had been gleaned—if the method of destroying a planet with its technology actually _worked_, then we would have moved it next against Earth, taking out the central bastion of the UNSC. The remaining colony worlds would then all be hunted down and destroyed in a matter of months. If this ship succeeds in destroying Sigma Octanus IV…then those plans may well come to fruition. After that, maybe they would move against the Sangheili worlds. Nothing would stop them, especially not with their Tirque allies assisting them. We have crippled them here, but we have not destroyed them."

"Mother of God…" one of the UNSC admirals breathed. Even the rock-solid Spec Ops Elites in the background stirred, unnerved by this new realization. The six Spartans present exchanged discreet glances, unspoken feelings emotions conveyed between the silent supersoldiers.

"How long does this world have?" one of the zealots asked.

O'Riley shrugged. "Hours, a day at most."

A heavy silence fell over the commanders of the allied forces for a full minute as O'Riley allowed them to digest all of this new information. After he felt he had given them enough time, he continued. "That being said…we now come to the issue of how to respond to this threat. Whatever we do, we must act quickly."

The commanders of the allied fleets sat in silence for another few moments before they finally sprang into action. "How might this ship be disabled?" Admiral Halford asked.

As O'Riley began to answer, he was interrupted by a deep, powerful voice from the back of the room. Everyone fell silent and turned in their seats as the Arbiter began to speak.

"Before we lay out a strategy to counter this new threat," the Arbiter said, choosing his words carefully, "It is of my opinion that simply incapacitating that artifact shall take too much time. We know neither how it functions nor how it may be manipulated. I have experience dealing with very similar Forerunner ships and installations. That experience…and an old, lost comrade…has taught me that it is much quicker and much more efficient to destroy the threat. That being said, I am sure you are all aware that an external assault will not succeed. Anyone who was present on the Human homeworld during that last battle of the Great Conflict can attest to that."

Emerson, Al-Hassin, and several of the Elites who had also been present in Voi when the Forerunner dreadnought had opened the Portal to the Ark, all gave agreeing grunts.

"I agree," O'Riley spoke up, "Whatever the Precursor ship is built out of, it is impervious to nearly anything we could dish out to it. The only thing I could think of off the top of my head which could possibly put it out of commission would be one of the UNSC NOVA warheads…but using that particular weapon in such proximity to Sigma Octanus IV would destroy the planet anyway. No, the only way to gut this thing is like any other seemingly invincible object—from the inside."

Emerson nodded, understanding what O'Riley was saying. "So you're saying that if we can rig up a nuke inside of that sucker…game over?"

"Yes, but it is not so simple as cutting open a hole and dropping a payload," O'Riley explained, "You are right; detonating a high-yield nuclear weapon inside would be enough to destroy the construct, but that nuke needs to be detonated here, in the central section," O'Riley pointed at the center of the tetrahedral ship, the massive spherical section where all four of the arms which gave the ship its tetrahedral shape converged. "It is from here that the ship is controlled. If the nuke is not detonated in this central area, then the ship will be damaged, but it will still be able to destroy Sigma Octanus IV."

"What's the catch?" Al-Hassin asked next, "There's always a catch."

O'Riley grinned again, but this smile was not one of happiness or joy. "The catch is that the armor this ship is made of is weakest only at four points. Here, here, here…and _here_," O'Riley pointed to each of the four points of the tetrahedral supership, which happened to be the four places which were farthest away from the center of the vessel. "The armor at these points is weak enough to be blasted away by a properly aimed MAC round, plasma torpedo, or a hit from one of the particle beams of the Sangheili energy projector weapons. Any spot can be breached and utilized. That will be your call, which spot you will use, as well as how many."

Fleet Admiral Emerson conversed quickly with the Sangheili Supreme Commander before returning his gaze to the rest of the table and giving a short, sharp nod. "It is settled. We are going to destroy this construct. Everyone is to report to the aft hangar bay immediately. Orders will be issued to you within the hour; in the meantime, you are to prep for heavy combat. You all are dismissed."

Without another word, the scarred, silver-armored Spec Ops commander rose from his chair and strode out of the room. The black-armored Special Operations Sangheili all followed him. Admirals Halford and Jaeger both got to their feet, offering quick salutes before they filed out. Two of the three zealots also departed along with three of the Spartans. The other three remained.

Admiral Al-Hassin rose to his feet as well. Instead of saluting Emerson, he instead extended a hand and gave him a firm handshake. "I need to get back to my fleet," the admiral said.

"Wouldn't want you anywhere else, Rashid," Emerson chuckled.

Al-Hassin gave a weary grin and turned, heading for the exit. "Good luck, Spartans," the admiral saluted the three Spartans still in the room as he passed by.

"Supreme Commander," the zealot growled—he was not really growling, but his voice made it seem like he was- "If it bids well with your wishes, I request to be a part of the assault force. I have not seen real combat since Doisac."

"Granted, Fleet Master 'Ovarumee," the Supreme Commander nodded to the zealot, clasping his right fist to his left heart in a Sangheili salute, "May the Gods watch over you and fight alongside you."

"And you as well, old friend," the Fleet Master—'Ovarumee—bowed his head and returned the salute. He turned on his heel and headed for the doors, exiting the room.

"I shall take my leave as well," the Supreme Commander declared, rising out of his seat, "May fortune smile upon you all. Good luck. Fleet Master," the purple-armored Sangheili turned to Emerson, "You are welcome to join me on my bridge when your affairs here are at a conclusion." With that, the Sangheili leader ducked out of the briefing room, heading out and away into the corridor, no doubt heading for the bridge.

The room was nearly empty now. Only the three Spartans, Colonel Angiers, O'Riley, and Fleet Admiral Emerson remained, along with the Arbiter, who had not moved from his spot in the back of the room.

Two of the Spartans still in the room tentatively stepped up onto the platform, gazing at the slowly-rotating image of the twelve-year-old boy, which had yet been deactivated. They were both silent, gazing at the young child. One of them reached out a hand, touching the boy's cheek. The image shimmered where the armored fingers made contact, but was otherwise unaffected.

The other Spartan on the platform looked right at Colonel Angiers and Fleet Admiral Emerson. "Petty Officer 2nd Class Alexander-G004, Gamma Company, NavSpecWep," the Spartan formally identified himself before hesitating, and then saying, "This is our son you are looking at. You are saying that he is on board that alien supership, which we are going to destroy?"

Neither Emerson nor Angiers answered. It was O'Riley who did the deed. "That is correct," the former deputy director of Shade Branch nodded.

"You have just told us that we are going to have to kill our own son to carry out this mission," the first Spartan—whose IFF transponder identified her as Samantha-G113—murmured, her voice a dangerously soft tone. "This is unacceptable."

Colonel Angiers cocked an eyebrow, shifting his weight as he held the Spartans' invisible gaze. "There are over a billion civilians on the surface of Sigma Octanus IV whose lives are in danger from this Precursor weapon," the ONI officer established, "I do not like this anymore than you do; playing God—deciding who should live and who should die—is no cakewalk, but you must consider the larger picture."

The two Spartans remained silent for a full minute, standing still, unmoving, staring right through the ONI officer and the Fleet Admiral. Finally, the male one—Alex—spoke, saying, "We are going to board that construct, but we are also going after the boy. If we die in the process…so be it. If that does not settle well with your own goals and agendas…well, that will just be too damn bad. Best of luck to you both, sirs," the Spartan drew up his arm in a quick salute, followed closely by the female Spartan next to him. They both dropped their salutes at the same time and strode out of the room. The third Spartan, who had waited for them at the doorway, fell in step beside them as they left.

The room was left with yet another frosty silence. Fleet Admiral Emerson was still mildly surprised; he had not thought Spartans capable of taking that tone with a superior officer—let alone the commander in chief of the entire UNSC military. "They are the boy's parents?" the Fleet Admiral asked Colonel Angiers, who promptly nodded. The Fleet Admiral exhaled deeply, slowly shaking his head. "Are we making the right choice, sending them in with the assault force?"

Colonel Angiers nodded once again, without hesitation. "I know those two," the ONI officer said, "They will be needed on that construct. We may not be making the logical choice, or even the wisest one, but it _is_ the right one."

"I hope you're right, Colonel. If you're not…if you're not, then we lose a planet."

* * *

Alex-G004 was not in a happy mood. Not all that much of a surprise, really; he had never been truly happy ever since he had lost his son, so why should now be any different?

However, he was trembling slightly, almost like a small child before his first rollercoaster ride. Though he was not happy, he was excited, charged with anticipation. Everything that had happened since the beginning of August when Robin had been yanked out from under his very nose, everything that had been accomplished or gone wrong since that time was all coming down to this moment.

Alex had not been there for his son when he had been snatched from his bed, he had not been there for him when the Cruciamentum had been blown sky-high, and he had not been there for Robin in Portus Illuminatus when he was betrayed and imprisoned and sent onto some obscure alien ship to do God only knew what.

No more. Robin was on board that Precursor ship, and it was there he was going to stay. He would not be snatched away from that place at the very last second. This was it; this was the end of the line. Now, either Robin would be rescued, or he would die. Same principle for Alex and Sam; it was going to have to be all or nothing.

At least Sam would be fighting alongside him. The doctors back at the Spire had been shocked at how fast she had recovered from her wounds sustained from the laser blast of a Tirque light tank. Chase-G019, one of the other Spartans who had been fighting on Mount Araquiel alongside Alex, Sam, Tyrone, and all the others, had been killed by that very same blast. Sam had been nearly dead when they had brought her in…only the skill and perseverance of the best surgeons on staff at the Spire had saved her…though Alex believed that she had also possessed a healthy helping of luck.

All the Spartans who were still alive today had that one thing in common. The one, constant thing that had kept them alive through the Great War had been luck. The tragedy of it all was that luck had nothing to do with skill or training. One could not train himself to receive better luck; a Spartan had no control over that one thing that had kept them alive through the Hell of the Great War.

Alex shook his head, returning his mind to the present.

"Form up!" the exclamation came from Fleet Admiral Emerson, who was striding across the hangar bay towards the Spec Ops troops and the Spartans, flanked by O'Riley and the Arbiter. The forty-odd Spec Ops Sangheili and the six Spartans all assembled into neat lines, coming to attention in the presence of the admiral. "Our plan of attack has been finalized. You all will be proceeding in dropships to the Precursor construct in four separate groups! Each group will be equipped with a HAVOK nuclear warhead, which is to be detonated once it is transported successfully into the central section of the Precursor ship. Every group will have a HAVOK; if one or more convoys are destroyed, there will always be backups. Your squads have already been assigned; form up into them."

The six Spartans remained where they stood while the Spec Ops Sangheili divided into three teams of around fifteen each.

As the Elites organized and geared up, a UNSC albatross heavy dropship approached the yawning entrance to the hangar of the Sangheili flagship, sliding in. The pilot maneuvered it past the docked pelicans and the handful of remaining phantom dropships. It came to a halt nearby, its thrusters keeping it hovering above the floor. There was a soft hiss as a deployment platform was lowered out of the belly of the heavy dropship, extending down to the floor. On it were seven ONI technicians in white lab coats, tending to four large, bulky, sealed units. There was also a scorpion tank present, tucked into the corner, where it just barely fit.

Three phantom dropships, already activated by their pilots and ready to deploy, hovered over to where the combined assault force was assembled. All of them had Shadows attached to their underbellies—heavy ground transport vehicles capable of moving vehicles from point A to point B. They were all loaded up with two ghosts each, but they would also be used to transport the HAVOK warheads their respective strike forces were assigned to. Under the direction of Colonel Angiers, the ONI technicians carted three of the sealed units containing the HAVOK warheads to those three dropships, pushing them into the soft indigo grav-lifts which shone down from the entry hole in their underbellies. The HAVOK warheads were carried up into the main hold by the grav-lifts, where the Sangheili pilots of those ships secured them.

Colonel Angiers, at the behest of Fleet Admiral Emerson, began laying out the groundwork for the assault, explaining about the network of teleportation pads which was the main mode of transportation throughout the Precursor ship. Those features would be what would get the strike teams into the central section of the Precursor ship. When the ONI officer was satisfied that he had done as much as he could to prepare the strike teams for what awaited them, he retired behind Fleet Admiral Emerson, who began dismissing the squadrons.

"Commander 'Xhilnosee," Emerson nodded to the Special Operations Commander, who was leading one of the Elite teams, "Your team's convoy will be codenamed 'War'. Report to your phantom and prepare for deployment."

The Special Operations Commander—'Xhilnosee—clasped his fist to his chest in a Sangheili salute, then turned and issued a sharp command to the Spec Ops Elites in his group. Together, they all filed up into one of the phantom dropships, lifted up into the hold by the indigo light of the grav-lift.

Fleet Master 'Ovarumee—the zealot who had requested to take part in the assault—took command of the second team of Spec Ops Sangheili. Their force had been codenamed 'Famine'. The third strike team was placed under the personal command of the Arbiter and was codenamed 'Pestilence'. All of the Sangheili reported to their phantoms and got squared away, ready to deploy at a moment's notice.

That left only the fourth and final strike team, comprising of the six Spartans. Due to the fact that the Spartans had less personnel than the Sangheili teams, they would get the scorpion tank which the albatross had transported to the Sangheili supercarrier.

"War, Famine, and Pestilence…" one of the Spartans—Randall—mused, "I like it. It's creative."

"I guess that means we're 'Death'," another Spartan murmured, citing the fourth and last of the Four Horsemen.

"Correct," Fleet Admiral Emerson nodded. "Your team is 'Death'. Your pelican arrived just a few moments ago," the Fleet Admiral gestured to a modified pelican dropship making its way the phantoms and over to the albatross, where the ONI technicians attached the scorpion tank to the magnetic clamps at the pelican's aft. The final HAVOK nuke was then loaded into the troop bay of the dropship before the pelican approached the individuals whom it would be transporting.

"You Spartans have your orders and your objectives," Emerson said, drawing himself up to his full height. "Good luck out there, all of you. Odds are I will never see you again…but your kind has a way of cheating the odds. I hope with all my heart that that legacy continues today. Good luck."

"Sir!" the six Spartans saluted the Fleet Admiral in unison. After the flag officer returned the gesture, they dropped their salutes and fell out, quick-timing their way over to their pelican.

Alex was the first to climb aboard, followed closely by Tyrone and Moira. He nearly stopped in surprise when he came face to face with the two individuals who were already waiting in the troop bay. "You?"

The jet black-haired, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, grimy thirteen-year-old who was sitting against the cockpit entrance looked up, his face splitting into a wry grin. "We're about to make history here," the Illuminati boy said in his lightly Irish-accented tones, climbing to his feet, "I've spent too much bloody time cooped up in that damn brig. We want to be in at the death. Plus, when I'm all old and wrinkly, I'll be able to put my little grandkids on my knees and tell them how I helped save a whole planet." The teenager's grin widened even more as another thought occurred to him. "Hell, I'll get to rub this in the faces of everyone back home…I'm liking this even more…"

"You're not coming with us," Sam told the two thirteen-year-olds, "We operate on a whole different level than you. You would only slow us down, no offense intended."

"Right and wrong," the other thirteen-year-old—a shorter girl with shoulder-length blond hair and deep brown eyes—said in reply, climbing to her feet alongside her companion. "You're wrong when you say that we are not coming with you; we are, there will be no arguing that. You have a son on that ship…we have a very good friend and comrade on that ship who happens to be the same person. You're right, though, when you say that we'll slow you down…but who, may I ask, did you have in mind to drive _that_ thing?" Jess gestured to the scorpion tank, which was suspended just outside the rear hatch. "With us manning the tank, all six of you will be free to do what you all do best on the ground. Having a Spartan drive this thing would be a waste."

"How did you get out of the brig?" Sam asked suddenly, "There's no way in hell the higher-ups authorized sending adolescents on this op."

"Well…" Blaze's grin did not falter, but his eyes seemed to twinkle mischievously, "I think that will be my little secret. That cell was too cramped for my taste."

"Everyone ready back there?!" O'Riley—who was in the pilot's seat and would also be accompanying the Spartan team, codenamed 'Death',—shouted back from the cockpit.

"Affirmative!" Tyrone yelled back, taking a seat on one of the benches lining the sides of the troop bay. James and Moira sat on either side of him, while Sam, Alex, and Randall sat on the opposite side of the hold.

"Well, that's our cue," Blaze sighed, taking a step towards the cockpit, "I'd rather not be turned inside-out by the vacuum of space. I'll see you fellows on the other side."

With that, Blaze and Jess vanished into the cockpit, sealing the hatch behind them, protecting the cockpit from the vacuum of space which would soon occupy the open troop bay. The Spartans, clad in their self-sustaining MJOLNIR power armor, would be impervious to the effects of space, and so did not need the rear hatch to be closed.

The three phantoms slid past, heading towards the hangar entrance, sliding through the force field and into space. The pelican powered up and ascended up and away from the floor, giving a slight lurch as the thrusters engaged and the dropship began to move forward.

The pelican slipped through the energy barrier keeping the vacuum of space out of the hangar bay, emerging from the supercarrier and into the void. There was a soft, omnipresent whooshing noise as the atmosphere in the troop bay was sucked out, depressurizing the pelican's hold. The internal environments of the MJOLNIR armor the Spartans were wearing all adjusted to the change accordingly.

Alex watched the supercarrier grow smaller and smaller as the pelican drew farther away. He felt Sam discreetly slip her hand into his own. He clasped it, holding it tight, waiting patiently, nervously as the pelican took him and his wife towards their destiny.

For better or for worse, they were in Fate's hands now.


	65. Chapter 64: Incursion

Chapter Sixty-Four: Incursion

**2202 hours, November 29, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Precursor Construct, in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV**

The cockpit of the pelican dropship had gotten a little chilly since its departure from the Sangheili flagship. O'Riley would have fiddled with the environment controls, but he found himself welcoming the cool air. It kept him on his toes.

"Seven minutes to burn," Blaze said from the copilot's station, which was situated behind, above, and to the left of the pilot's position, which was crammed in the most forward part of the cockpit.

"Acknowledged," O'Riley murmured in reply, "Initializing pre-burn sequences, warming up main rockets…"

Blaze and O'Riley continued to go back and forth with each other, prepping the pelican for the upcoming engine burn which would send them straight into their objective. Jess ignored them, preferring instead to stand in the open space between the copilot's seat and the starboard wall. She leaned against the wall, keeping her arms crossed as she watched the ongoing battle through the cockpit window.

The cloud of silhouettes which were the hundreds of vessels in the UNSC-Sangheili fleet had approached the Precursor Construct less than an hour ago. The remnants of the Insurrectionists and the Tirque had risen up to meet them. It had been a sight to behold; two powerful navies moving towards each other, trading long-range fire with each other. Tiny pinpricks of light were visible as fighters from the two navies intercepted each other in the rapidly-shrinking no-man's-land. Bright streaks of crackling red, boiling blue, and sharp purple had seared through the void, gutting many ships from each fleet before finally they met. The ships of the two fleets then mingled. Bright flashes and explosions were visible as they traded fire with each other in close quarters.

Though the whole fight seemed like rampant chaos, there was method to the madness. Slowly, subtly, the UNSC-Sangheili fleet was drawing the Insurrectionists and Tirque farther and farther away from the Precursor Construct. Eventually they grew far enough away to open up a wide-open gap, a path straight to the huge ship.

A group of four smaller Sangheili destroyers broke off from the battle, forming up and proceeding towards the Precursor Construct. They were part of the mission to destroy the massive ship; they would be creating entrances for the four strike teams to enter through.

Jess was not watching the battle, however. Her gaze was fixed on the tetrahedral Precursor ship which hung in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV. It was the focus of this whole battle, and for good reason. She could clearly see the bright, translucent orange energy beam which was emanating from its central sphere, agitating the planet's core, slowly destroying the world.

The forces on the surface of the planet had yet to notice the effects of the Construct's mining beam, but they would soon begin to feel the deep tremors in the ground, the earthquakes. It would only get worse.

Jess paid no heed to that, either. She and Blaze were here for one reason, and one reason only: Robin Ambrose. Jess could not stop thinking, agonizing over him. Whenever she closed her eyes, his face would be there; the faint half-smile, the sharp electric-blue eyes staring right into her.

Robin was on that ship somewhere, being forced to do God only knew what for the Insurrectionists. His parents were among the six Spartans on the pelican—Blaze and Jess had already met them in Portus Illuminatus. They had all traveled back to UNSC space together, but had been separated when the UNSC brass had decided to have her, Blaze, and O'Riley detained. Well, that was behind them, for now. Jess knew that Robin's parents were here to get their son back as well. Sure, they had their primary mission—destroying the Construct before Sigma Octanus IV was shaken to pieces—but they would not be leaving that ship without their son. Jess had every intention of helping them.

Another face flashed through Jess's mind. A man; thin, pale, and sallow. A cruel leer, cold light-brown eyes. The Illuminatus, the Director of Shade Branch—whatever the man called himself—he was on that Construct as well. Jess's face darkened into a scowl as she thought of him. Back in Portus Illuminatus, after his men had failed to secure Robin as a prisoner, the Director had executed Nathan and then tried to do the same to her. Robin had given himself up, allowed himself to be captured in order to save her. The Director had then ordered her and Blaze to be executed anyway. His men had failed of course, foiled by the timely arrival of a squad of Illuminati soldiers. Jess had every intention of making him regret that mistake.

Jess pushed her thoughts of the Director from her mind. He had betrayed the Illuminati…or maybe he hadn't; it could be argued that maybe he had never been with the Illuminati to begin with. It no longer mattered, either way. What mattered was that he had his finger curled around the trigger of a massive gun which was pointed right at the heart of the UNSC. After he fired it, it would turn to the Sangheili. The weapon had to be destroyed.

"Hey, girl, ease up a bit," Blaze interrupted Jess's train of thought, jerking her from her reverie, "You're staring at that hunk of prehistoric metal out there so hard I was afraid the bloody window was going to shatter," the Illuminati boy chuckled.

"That so?" Jess cocked an eyebrow, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes and straightening up, "Can't help it…my mind's been someplace else lately."

"Oh common, Jess, I've known you way too long for that to fool me," Blaze said, seeing right through Jess's outer façade, "You're thinking about _him_. The kid."

Jess's silence answered his question.

"Well, you're not alone," Blaze murmured, turning back to his console, "I owe him, too. According to what everyone told me when I woke up for the first time in Portus Illuminatus, he carried me all the way through Mire City on his shoulder."

"He pretty much carried you all the way to Gerald's," Jess corrected her oldest friend, who hesitated, pausing for a minute and shrugging, returning his attention to the console.

"One minute to burn," Blaze reported, talking over his console to O'Riley. He checked a few last-minute things, running through all of the functions of the pelican, before pausing, satisfied that the pelican was ready for a fight. "You know, O'Riley, rumor has it that you were the one who went and snatched the kid from his home."

"I was not _the_ one…but I led the team, yes," O'Riley nodded.

"Alright, humor me for a second," Blaze chuckled again, shifting into a more comfortable position in his seat. "You've seen what Robin can do—his strength, speed, the whole shebang. How the bloody hell did you manage to capture him in the first place? I'm really curious."

O'Riley winced as the memories from that rainy August night in the Ambroses' house came back to him. "We got him while he was sleeping," the former deputy director explained, "Snuck up to his bedside, bound his arms and legs, shoved a rag full of tranquilizer in his face. He was out before he knew what hit him…didn't all go to plan, though. His parents were woken up. Half of my team did not leave that house alive."

"So…why are you here? Why'd you even come to Portus Illuminatus?" Jess asked, "You successfully completed your mission and you were promoted. You were right where anyone would want to be; in the good graces of the High Chancellor himself. What happened, you get a sudden pang of consciousness?"

"The Magisterial Conclave of War; _that's_ what happened," O'Riley muttered, "The gathering of all the Magistarium's top military leaders in order to discuss the Invasion, of which this battle is a part. That's where I learned about how they were going to use _that_," O'Riley gestured at the Precursor Contruct through the window, "to pretty much destroy anything that didn't bow down to them. I also learned how they were going to use the Ambrose boy in order to make that thing work. I didn't sign up for any of that."

"Thirty seconds to burn," Blaze called out, bringing everyone back to the present.

"Well, I believe that's enough chitchat for today," O'Riley sighed, getting ready to start the burn.

As the three rogue Insurrectionists watched through the cockpit window, the four Sangheili destroyers approaching the Precursor ship had split up, each destroyer heading for the ends of the four tetrahedral arms. The armor at the very tips of those four arms was the weakest. A direct hit from an energy projector would be able to breach it. The energy projectors at the fores of those four Sangheili destroyers began to glow, crackling purple and white as they charged up.

A loud beeping noise sounded from O'Riley's console, shattering the silence which had settled over the cockpit. "That's our cue," the former deputy director said, reaching over and strapping himself in. "Engaging main rockets, beginning engine burn…_now_."

O'Riley punched the rockets, which roared to life. Jess was actually hurled back against the back wall of the cockpit by the rapid acceleration. The interior of the pelican began to vibrate and rattle as it pushed its limits.

Jess picked herself back up, tenderly massaging the bruise which was beginning to form on her shoulder. She took a step forward and steadied herself by grabbing the back of Blaze's seat. "A warning would've been nice, just throwing that out there for consideration!" the thirteen-year-old snapped.

"Jess, I'd hold onto something if I were you; the acceleration'll probably knock you off your feet!" Blaze shouted back, "There!"

"Thanks, I appreciate it!" Jess grumbled, "_Jackass_..."

The Precursor Construct grew larger in the window as the pelican sped towards it, eventually filling the entire view of the cockpit. O'Riley edged the dropship over to the side, angling it towards its objective; the very tip of one of the tetrahedral arms.

One of the four Sangheili destroyers had already reached the critical point in the arm. By then, its energy projector had fully charged up. Now, it fired, sending a thin, sharp particle beam straight into the very tip of the Construct's outreaching arm. The weak armor at the very edge was instantly atomized under the fury of the energy projector, and much more of it was boiled away by the intense heat.

After activating the comlink with the Spartans in the troop bay, warning them to hold onto something, O'Riley gunned the rockets again, pushing them as far as they could possibly go. The opening in the arm of the Precursor Construct beckoned to the pelican, framed by glowing molten metal. The pelican sailed right through the huge tear in the armor, flying right into the Precursor ship.

The breach in the armor was less of a simple rip and more of a jagged tunnel. The external armor in this part of the Construct must have been at least half a kilometer thick, but the energy projector had torn right through, punching all the way through to whatever lay on the other side.

"Jesus…how did the UNSC survive a thirty-year war against aliens with weapons capable of doing _this?_" Blaze murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, eyeing the makeshift tunnel which the energy projector had bored.

It was good the higher-ups had decided to send Sangheili ships to penetrate the armor; MAC rounds would not have been able to do the job as easily. The tunnel was bright, illuminated by the molten metal which had not been atomized by the particle beam of the Sangheili energy projector, but had been close enough to take the brunt of the immense heat.

The tunnel soon opened up into a wide-open space. An invisible energy field flickered briefly into visibility as the pelican passed through it. Jess squinted, shielding her eyes as they adjusted to the bright light coming from the space. As her eyes recovered, she realized that the light was _sunlight_. The space which the pelican had emerged into was a huge mountain range. Craggy, snow-capped peaks rose from a distant, forest-covered ground. There were clouds in the sky, which was no doubt made blue by unseen holo-projectors. Blaze, Jess, and O'Riley were all speechless, awed by the capabilities of Precursor technology. In essence, the ancient civilization had been able to turn the interiors of their ships into miniature worlds. Not even the Forerunners had quite been able to master that.

"We…we're in," O'Riley stammered, his adrenaline rush making his speech come out stuttered and fast-paced.

"Just where exactly do we go from here?" Blaze asked, putting into words the question on everyone's mind.

"This Construct was more than a simple mining vessel in its time," O'Riley explained, "People seem to have actually _lived_ here. Travel from one part of the Construct to another was done utilizing a teleportation grid, similar to the ones built into the Halo Rings. However, seeing as we have no means of accessing this teleportation grid remotely, the way the Monitors of the Halo Rings were able to, we must do it manually, and that may only be done at certain nexus points throughout the Construct. The only nexus point in this region which connects with the central hub—the spherical centre of the Construct—is located at the other end of this mountain range…twelve kilometers away."

"Can we breathe whatever's outside?" Jess asked.

"Scanning…" Blaze interfaced with the pelican's sensors, finding out what the atmosphere inside the Precursor Construct was composed of, "Nitrogen, oxygen, argon, CO2…yep, it's all here, just begging to be inhaled."

"Alright, I'm opening us up," O'Riley said, "No more recycled O2 until we're bugging out."

There was a loud _hiss_ as O'Riley unsealed the rear deployment hatch as well as the cockpit entrance, allowing the atmosphere of the Precursor Construct to flow in. Jess felt lightheaded for a moment as her body adjusted to the change in atmospheric pressure, but the feeling quickly passed.

The cockpit access slid open and an armored boot stepped inside, followed closely by the rest of the Spartan attached to it. This Spartan was the largest of the six who were on board the pelican, standing over six and a half feet tall. Not as tall as his Spartan-II predecessors, but pretty close. "Nice flying," the Spartan commented, though no one knew if he was being sarcastic or not. No one asked, either. "What is our plan of attack?"

O'Riley wasted no time, quickly explaining to the Spartan about the Construct's teleportation grid. "The nearest nexus point is located twelve kilometers away on the summit of the last mountain in this mountain range."

"Mind explaining what in hell those things are?" the Spartan asked next, gesturing up through the window towards the sky, where a group of seven or eight small, metallic, spider-like machines were floating through the air. They were not doing anything or reacting to the pelican's presence; they were simply drifting through the sky, obviously without a task to complete.

"Hm?" O'Riley grunted, turning his gaze upwards. He relaxed when he caught sight of the eight machines just before they drifted into a cloud. "Oh, they are the caretakers, small artificial intelligences whose task is to keep the Construct running. There are millions of them on board. I have no doubt that those were on their way to the edge of this biosphere where we made entry. In fact, thousands of caretakers are probably on their way there now, intending to repair the damage caused by the energy projector beam."

"Who controls them?" Blaze asked.

"The Custodian," O'Riley murmured in reply, "The Custodian is the…the entity who really controls this Construct. I call him an 'entity' because he is much, much more than a simple AI…he is more like a consciousness than anything else…who knows what the Precursors were capable of. Though I suppose it's the Ambrose boy who now controls them, seeing as _he_ is the one running this ship now…"

"Wait, I thought you just said this 'Custodian' is the one who runs the ship," Jess pointed out, her forehead creasing in a frown.

"The Custodian _does_ control this Construct. However, the Ambrose boy has been mentally…interred into the Construct's meta-structure. Your friend is able to interface and command the Custodian. By default, Robin Ambrose is telling the Custodian what to do, and the Custodian obeys him."

"Then why can't he stop the mining beam, or even free himself, if he is really in control, as you say?" the Spartan in the cockpit asked.

"Because the boy is in turn being controlled by external forces. He can command the Custodian, but the Tirque and Insurrectionist leaders control _him_…and he has no way of stopping them. If they give him an order to give to the Custodian, he has to relay it. In a way, he is not in control of anything; he is simply a conduit; a way for the Director to give orders to the Custodian. A middleman. He has no free will. That is the real reason why we have not been able to use this Construct for so long; we had no means of communicating with the Custodian. Until now."

"You did not mention anything of this during the briefing," the Spartan pointed out.

"Time was short," O'Riley shrugged, "I didn't have time for all of the details; the condensed version of the story had to suffice."

The Spartan—O'Riley glanced at the ID tag near his neck, which read Tyrone-G083—fell silent for a second, before returning to the subject of the caretakers, asking, "The caretakers; are they dangerous?"

"No," O'Riley shook his head, "No, they're not. They've never once attacked anything or anyone on this ship from what the Tirque tell us. Of course…" O'Riley's voice faltered as an unpleasant thought occurred to him, "…no one has ever tried to destroy this thing before…I don't know how the Custodian will react when he finds out exactly why we're here."

The Spartan mumbled something about 'Sentinels' under his breath, but Jess did not know what he was talking about. It was clear that the caretakers made him uneasy, but that could not be helped.

The pelican continued to fly through the artificial sky, weaving its way through the misty mountains in the Precursor biosphere. Suddenly, a loud alarm sounded from O'Riley's console. "What the-" the former Insurrectionist exclaimed in surprise, his gaze snapping down to his console.

"Incoming bogeys!" Blaze cried out, his fingers a blur as they interfaced with the pelican's sensors, getting a reading on the new threat. "We have four S6-Class ground-to-air missiles coming in hot, bearing right thirty-five degrees!"

"Confirmed!" O'Riley shouted, "Switching to manual, engaging auxiliaries!" O'Riley took full control of the pelican, sending it down in a steep nosedive, dropping towards the ground like a stone falling from Mount Olympus.

"Three of the missiles have locked on!" Blaze reported, "The fourth has exceeded range."

"Everyone get ready for an emergency landing; this may get hairy!" Tyrone yelled back to the five other Spartans in the troop bay. He stepped out of the cockpit and began to prep for a drop.

"Where the hell did those suckers come from?!" Blaze exclaimed, reaching over and grabbing Jess's arm as O'Riley sent the pelican into a dizzying corkscrew.

"My people must have installed AA batteries into these mountains before sending the Construct into battle!" O'Riley answered over the howl of the wind as it tore through the interior of the pelican, "They actually prepared for boarding parties….I didn't think they would have bothered!"

"Firing decoys!" Blaze jabbed down at his console. A series of dull _whumps_ shook through the pelican as the dropship fired off its hot waffle, which would hopefully draw the incoming missiles away.

There was a distant explosion as the hot waffle did its work, but it was not enough. Blaze glanced at his console and said, "Scratch one bogey…still have two on our tail…they've reacquired!"

"Get a reading on their guidance systems; see if you can scramble them!" O'Riley barked, heaving the pelican to the left, sending the dropship screaming around the curve of one of the mountains. The missiles followed the pelican in a perfect arc, drawing closer and closer.

Blaze punched in the appropriate commands, scanning the two missiles and their inner workings. His mouth shrunk to a thin, hard line as he read the data. "No dice, O'Riley. They're heat-seeking."

"_Shit_…" the former Insurrectionist swore under his breath, "Alright…alright, I'm going to have to get all of you off _now_, or we'll all die and that nuke will never reach the blast zone in the central hub!"

"What about you?!" Blaze exclaimed, seeing what O'Riley was hinting at.

"I'm not what's going to blow this Construct to kingdom come; that nuke is! Get the Spartans ready, and get yourselves ready, too! I'm taking us down!"

"But-"

"_Go!_"

"Common!" Jess grabbed Blaze by the arm and yanked the thirteen-year-old out of his seat, pulling him out of the cockpit and into the troop bay, where the six Spartans were checking their weapons and armor.

One of them started to ask what was going on, but Jess interrupted her, shouting, "We're going in hot, get ready to exfil!"

The Spartans all exchanged a quick glance with one another before springing into action, leaping to their feet and securing all of their gear.

Jess pulled Blaze through the troop bay to the rear hatch, where the scorpion tank was swaying just outside of the troop bay, still attached to the magnetic clamp on the aft overhang. Jess took a running jump and leapt from the edge of the troop bay deployment ramp onto the scorpion tank. For a brief moment, the wind threatened to tear her from the tank and toss her out into the sky, but she gripped the cleft of one of the armor plates, holding herself in place.

Blaze did likewise, pulling on a pair of gloves and leaping through the short space of open air between the rear opening of the troop bay and the scorpion tank, which was starting to sway even more as O'Riley threw the pelican into a hard left bank in an attempt to buy the dropship some time.

"I'm dropping the tank in fifteen!" O'Riley shouted back from the cockpit.

Blaze pulled himself forward and seized the rim of the turret gunner's nest, hauling himself forward and tumbling inside, strapping himself to the mounted heavy machinegun.

Jess did the same, only instead of pulling herself into the gunner nest, she heaved herself up further and over to the right, tumbling through the open hatch and into the driver's niche. She interfaced with the tank's controls and brought its power and engine systems online, prepping it for movement. The Illuminati girl then reached up and pulled the hatch closed, sealing it from the inside. The driver's niche was plunged into total darkness for a moment, but the consoles quickly began to glow in the absence of light, illuminating the compartment with a blue luminescence. The roaring wind also ceased, reduced to a soft whisper, muffled by the armor which lay between Jess and the outside world.

Blaze, unfortunately, was still on the receiving end of the wind. The six Spartans were sealed up tight in their armor—they could not feel the wind on their skin—but Blaze could barely keep his eyes open. His hair was plastered back by the wind and his face felt like it was having sandpaper rubbed over it. He wanted to scream, but dared not open his mouth.

Finally, the wind lessened, allowing Blaze to hear and breathe again. The pelican was slowing down. Blaze looked over the side of the scorpion and saw treetops. They were close to the ground. A break in the trees appeared further on up ahead, and that was what O'Riley aimed for. He slowed the pelican down enough to allow for a safe landing, and then disabled the magnetic clamp.

Blaze felt the scorpion shudder as the magnetic clamp holding it aloft was shut down. For a split-second the tank hung in mid-air, but then gravity took over and the scorpion plummeted down thirty or so feet to the ground.

The thirteen-year-old Illuminati boy grabbed hold of his safety restraints and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact. The tank hit the ground, jarring nearly every bone in the boy's body. Blaze let out an instinctual yelp of pain and surprise as the tank landed, but it quickly faded as he took inventory of himself and concluded that he had not lost any body parts.

Blaze could hear muffled exclamations and swearing from inside the tank. Jess must not have fared much better from the fall than her companion had. "You alright in there, girl?!" Blaze asked, banging on the top of the tank with his fist. Jess's reply was none too kind, pretty much telling Blaze to shove it up his ass. Blaze chuckled to himself; Jess was definitely fine. "Just checking!"

The six Spartans also leaped out of the troop bay, tumbling out onto the ground. The pelican, its payload dropped, pulled up and away, soaring into the clouds. The trails of the two missiles following it became all too apparent. They were closing in despite everything O'Riley tried to evade them. The pelican vanished around the curve of the mountain behind them. After a minute, there was the faint, unmistakable _boom_ of a distant explosion.

Blaze felt his jaw drop open slightly and his mind felt numb, almost unable to comprehend what had just happened. The Spartans all fell silent and stood still, quickly paying their respects to the man who had safely transported them to the ground.

Blaze did not know what to say, or even think. It had happened so fast…

The large Spartan, Tyrone, brought everyone back to the here and now, saying, "Aight everyone…" the Spartan hesitated, searching for the right words, "We have just suffered our first casualty, and it happened much too early. Before he…departed…O'Riley sent me the coordinates of the nexus point which will take us to the central hub of this Construct. It is there," the Spartan pointed to the mountain up ahead, which rose out of the trees and mist, jutting high into the sky, "On the summit of that mountain. We must move quickly. By now, someone somewhere no doubt knows that we are here. They must also know that we are not here to visit, and they will try to stop us. We have to get our HAVOK warhead into the blast zone quickly, before they can mount a counterattack against us. We will not last long against all of the hostiles in this place. Our only chance if that happens will be to link up with the Elite teams…which we cannot do until we reach that nexus point. Anyone have any questions?"

"Yeah; how in bloody hell are we supposed to get _off_ this pile of junk?" Blaze spoke up from the gunner's nest in the scorpion, "Our only way out of here just got blown up, if anybody remembers."

"Priorities," Tyrone replied, "First we have to get the HAVOK into the blast zone. _Then_ we worry about getting off."

"Uh-huh," Blaze mumbled. The thirteen-year-old was not convinced. He was on the Construct to get Robin back and to stop it from destroying a planet, but he had no illusions or dreams of dying. He intended to live, not quite ready to throw his life away just yet.

No one had anymore questions, so two of the Spartans walked over to the scorpion and made sure the HAVOK nuke was still secure. The warhead was encased in a heavily reinforced titanium crate. It would not have helped the strike team very much if the nuke was detonated prematurely by a stray bullet.

Tyrone thrust a clenched fist into the air, opening it palm-out and pointing towards the mountain. "Let's move out!"

There was a comforting, rumbling whir as the scorpion rumbled to life, its main cannon rising from its depressed position until it pointed straight ahead. The whole main cannon moved around in a full circle as Jess gave it a quick test, making sure it was working properly. That done, Jess depressed the engine pedals and sent the tank rumbling forward through the trees.

Blaze grabbed the heavy mounted machinegun which he was sitting behind, getting a feel for the handles. He turned the turret around as far as it would go to one side, and then turned it to the other side. The turret would cover a little less than 180 degrees of the tank's front. It would do little for the scorpion's rear, but it would be the Spartans' jobs to make sure nothing made it back there. Blaze was confident that the scorpion's vulnerable rear would be completely safe.

The thirteen year old pointed the turret up to the sky and thumbed the triggers, firing off a short burst into the air. The loud, repeating clatter sent a fiery joy through his veins. He was in control of a great destructive power, something which was probably going to bring dozens of lives to a premature end. It was a good feeling.

Blaze let go of the triggers and relaxed, propping his feet up on top of the gun and lacing his fingers behind the back of his head. _The first ten kills will be for you, O'Riley_, the Illuminati boy thought to himself, _The next ten are for Nathan...and all the rest for my own twisted amusement.  
_

Blaze smiled, beginning to feel impatient. He watched the rocks and the trees slide past as the scorpion forced its way through the light forest, moving ever closer to the mountain up ahead. Blaze eyed the summit of the mountain, where he could just barely see the shapes of buildings. The nexus point. Maybe there would be enemies waiting for them there. Blaze's smile widened, displaying a row of yellowed, somewhat crooked teeth. _This is going to be fun_.

* * *

_Author's Note_

_Sorry for the delay in getting this last one posted; my hard drive went ka-blooey and I pretty much had to write the whole thing twice. On a brighter note, I think I did a better job with the rewrite, so there's still a silver lining; you just have to know where to look for it!_

_-The Amateur  
_


	66. Chapter 65: The Power of Logic

Chapter Sixty-Five: The Power of Logic

**2312 hours, November 29, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Precursor Construct, in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV**

"Hey! _Heeey!_" Robin Ambrose shouted out into space, listening to the echo of his own voice as it bounced off of the canyon walls. He was in a gorge, a remarkably deep rend in the earth. It reminded Robin of the Grand Canyon back on Earth—a large system of gorges and ravines in southeastern North America.

A dry, arid breeze blew through the gorge, making the shrubbery and cactus flowers rustle. Robin wandered through the gorge, stepping aimlessly over the cracks in the dry, dusty earth, making his way through the narrow crevice. It did not seem to have an end—the canyon just stretched on and on. Robin walked through it anyway; staying still in the same place for too long would have resulted in insanity due to boredom and inactivity pretty quick.

The canyon was not real, of course. The whole thing was in his mind, a mental fabrication; sustained and given existence by the Custodian, the entity who seemed to be in control of the Precursor Construct. The Custodian had not made contact with Robin ever since…well, Robin had no way of knowing exactly how long ago it was. Time had no meaning in this place. Sometimes it felt like he had met the Custodian only minutes ago, sometimes it felt like days, or weeks. The first time he had met the Custodian, it had only seemed like a few minutes; however those 'few minutes' ended up actually being two weeks. After that first encounter, time had seemed like a stick of half-melted butter; constantly slipping through Robin's fingers and perceptions, making it impossible to experience and measure.

Robin's first and, so far, his _only_ encounter with the Custodian had taken place in a log cabin in the middle of a forest…then the whole thing had turned from a peaceful, homely cabin into a prison cell ever since he had gotten angry and uncooperative with the Custodian. Robin had very nearly lost it in that cell—he had simply spent too long in captivity. He was young, with the energy and spirit only a twelve-year-old knows, and being in captivity and away from home for the majority of the past four months had not done wonders for his mentality.

The prison cell was gone, now, replaced with the desert canyon. This was a prison in of itself; the cliff faces were too sheer and high to climb, trapping him in the narrow gorge with nothing to do except walk. He never felt hungry or thirsty, though; back in the physical world, the twelve-year-old knew that his body was interred within a life-sustaining throne, a mechanism which kept a steady stream of nutrients and sustenance pumping directly into his stomach. No, starvation and thirst would never be a problem.

Robin's feet began to ache after a while and he took a rest, sitting down on top of a large boulder. He let out a long sigh, stretching out on his back, exposing himself to the hot sun which was burning away, high up in the clear blue sky. His mind began to wander again, looking back and reflecting on the past few months. He tried to think about before the end of August, when he had been safely and innocently at home, and his biggest worries in the world had been completing homework for his school. After the torment of the Cruciamentum, after his time fighting with the Illuminati Spec Ops forces, getting shot, getting betrayed, and now after what was happening here, the life he had lived before he had been taken from his home began to seem more and more like a dream. The so-called 'problems' he had had before were now laughable.

Robin remembered his parents telling stories of their training on a planet called Onyx, remembered how the rigorous mental and physical conditioning made them all but forget who they were and where they had come from. They still remembered their homeworlds—his mother had come from a colony called Emerald Cove and his father from another hub world called Rhea III. Both worlds had been glassed when his parents were young children, but they could not remember who their families were, or even what their last names had been. Robin had thought the idea of losing your identity in such a manner impossible, but now he was beginning to change his mind. Sometimes he wondered what his real name should be. It was not Ambrose—his parents had simply taken that last name out of respect for the man who had trained them.

His thoughts turned to his parents, the two people in this universe who cared for him the most. The Director had said that they had not been idle after his kidnapping—they had actually found a way to follow the abductors to Nemesis III in Magisterial Space, and they had been on that world nearly as long as he had been. That had warmed his heart, knowing that his parents were coming for him, moving mountains to get to him.

Alex-G004 and Sam-G113 were the one thing keeping Robin's sanity intact. If anything or anyone was going to free the twelve-year-old from his mental prison, it would be them. His parents would find a way.

* * *

The nexus point comprised of a collection of small stone buildings which looked similar to the ancient Roman ruins which could be found on Earth, but the center of attention was the large, shining pillar of energy which rose up from the ground and several hundred yards into the air.

The pillar was glowing a faint, soft blue. The six Spartans gathered around the edge, hesitant for a few moments. This was uncharted territory which they were dealing with.

"Do we just…step in?" Randall murmured, wondering aloud.

"One way to find out," Tyrone replied. The team leader took a step forward and strode into the pillar of energy. There was a bright white flash as the Spartan stepped through and Tyrone's silhouette vanished. He was gone.

"Tyrone?" Alex spoke over the SQUADCOM, trying to contact his old friend, "Tyrone, do you read me?"

There was no response. Moira and James both gave a hapless shrug and followed in Tyrone's footsteps, stepping through and vanishing into the portal.

"You want me to drive this bucket of bolts _into_ that thing?" the voice of the Illuminati girl who was operating the scorpion tank asked over the SQUADCOM.

"Well, unless we want to spend the rest of our natural lives on this mountain, that's affirm," Sam replied, "Go on through; we'll follow."

"Alright…here goes nothing…" Jess murmured over the COM. The scorpion's engines rumbled and the tank moved forward, heading towards the shimmering pillar of energy. As the front of the tank made contact, the blue-hued light glowed white and the scorpion gradually began to disappear.

Blaze, the thirteen-year-old Illuminati boy who was manning the scorpion's mounted MG, was still reclined in his seat, his feet propped up next to the turret. He flashed a smile and offered a lazy salute to Sam, Alex, and Randall as he passed by and eventually vanished into the portal.

"That kid would have made an amazing Spartan," Randall chuckled, "He's crazier than we ever were."

"He's part of a Special Operations unit back where he comes from," Alex said, "He's a good fighter; no other reason that could explain why he's survived all these years."

"He could also just be lucky," Sam reminded her husband. "And I have a feeling that our luck here isn't going to mean as much as it has elsewhere…"

* * *

The gorge never changed. The sun remained firmly fixed in its place in the ocean-blue sky; the light, arid breeze kept right on blowing through the narrow canyon walls. Nothing happened, nothing changed…until now.

Robin had been lying flat on his back on top of a large boulder, giving his feet a rest, when suddenly everything changed. Robin felt a sudden cool breeze against his face, along with a wet spray. He cracked open his eyes and found that he was actually standing up, leaning against a hard wooden surface.

The twelve-year-old opened his eyes the rest of the way and looked around, taking in his surroundings. He was on a ship. It was not a modern vessel; it was an ancient, wooden vessel—something straight out of seventeenth or eighteenth century. The thing he was leaning against was the mainmast and the wet spray on his face was from the spray of the sea as the ship plowed through the waves.

Robin took a few tentative steps away from the mainmast and walked across the deck to the starboard side of the ship, leaning on the railing and peering over the edge, watching the waves of the sea and the wake that the ship left behind.

A sense of giddiness and excitement coursed through the twelve-year-old as he rocked with the ship, which lurched up and down as it crested the waves. He had never been out on the ocean in his lifetime. The most he had ever done in the water—apart from swimming pools—had been windsurfing in Lake Erie and swimming in the stream which ran through the woods behind his house. He had never been on a ship like this before.

Despite the fact that he was indefinitely trapped in a hyper-advanced Precursor life-support system and was effectively a prisoner in his own mind, Robin smiled, in spite of himself. He reached out a hand and felt the wind between his fingers. He gazed down at the water and, his mind changing tack for a moment, wondered what would happen if he jumped off the ship, what would happen if he let himself drown. None of this was real; it was all in his mind, so if he 'died' here, would his body in the physical world die as well? Would he simply find himself underwater, unable to die? Would he reappear in a different place?

The twelve-year-old heard footsteps coming from behind, and then a hand descended onto his shoulder, grasping it in a firm grip. Robin turned his head and looked behind him, coming face to face with the Asiatic features of the entity who called itself the Custodian.

The Custodian had taken the form of a short, rotund Asian man with a bristly mustache covering his upper lip. It was fairly unlikely that this is what Precursors had actually looked like, meaning that the Custodian had chosen that form simply to appeal to a Human mind with Human perceptions.

"Oh…_you_…" Robin sighed.

"You were contemplating the consequences of jumping, were you not?" the Custodian queried.

"What _would_ happen?"

A faint smile tugged at the corners of the Custodian's mouth. "We both know that you are not yet desperate to the point of attempting to end yourself, therefore negating the need for me to explain what the outcome would be."

"Is that so?" was all Robin said before he acted, twisting out of the Custodian's grasp, jumping up onto the rail, and leaping out into the air.

* * *

The first thing Alex-G004 noticed after he stepped through the portal was a series of sharp jabs all along his chest and stomach area. After the nanosecond it took for his brain to adapt to the new environment, Alex realized that his MJOLNIR's energy shields were shimmering. He was being shot.

Alex grunted in surprise and threw himself off to the side, rolling behind the nearest tree to protect himself. He reached behind himself and pulled his sniper rifle from his back, sliding a fresh clip into the chamber and flicking off the safety.

"Anyone have any idea where the hell we are?" Alex asked over the SQUAADCOM. The channel crackled and the familiar tones of Tyrone burst through in response.

"If O'Riley's descriptions were correct, then this is part of the outer reaches of the central hub!"

Alex took a moment to look around and get a feel for where he was. The nexus point had deposited the UNSC strike team in the middle of a forest which looked as if it were in the later stages of autumn. The trees were widely spaced from each other and their leaves were a multitude of different colors, ranging from the usual green to bright oranges, yellows, and scarlets. A thick carpet of leaves covered the ground, resulting in loud crunching noises whenever someone took a step.

Alex got down onto his stomach and poked his sniper rifle around the edge of the tree he was hunkered down behind. He adjusted the scope and followed the path of the incoming weaponsfire to the trees up ahead. Insurrectionists were hiding in those trees, men and women dressed in heavy camo-fatigues.

The blue-eyed Spartan zeroed in on a woman who was perched in a thick, lumpy tree branch, clutching a mid-range carbine. She was taking potshots at Tyrone and Moira, who were attempting to rush an enemy heavy MG nest. Alex centered the crosshairs on the woman's head and, after letting some of his breath go, squeezed the trigger. The round caught the Insurrectionist woman in the forehead, knocking her clean off of the branch.

The blue-eyed Spartan broke off his aim and began searching for a new target. He loosed off several more shots into the foliage, but most of them ended up only shooting holes through clumps of underbrush where no one was. After dispatching a third Insurrectionist, a harsh glint caught his eye.

He had seen that very same glint many times before, during his counter-sniping training on Onyx back when he was a kid. Alex had arguably been the best long-range crackshot in Gamma Company, but there _had_ been several others who could also do much more with a sniper rifle than simply look through a scope and shoot. Lieutenant Commander Ambrose would take him and those other gifted snipers into the forests near El Morro Point, and they would spend days in those dark, dense, sunless woods, hunting and stalking each other.

One thing Alex would always do is position himself away from the sun. One of the main things that always ended up turning unsuspecting snipers into instant cadavers was when the sun reflected off of their scopes. To an opposing sniper, the resulting flash was like a miniature star in a sea of shadows.

Alex saw that very same flash of the sun reflecting off an opposing sniper scope right after he killed his third Insurrectionist, coming from the branches of a far-off tree. Just as he swung his rifle around and acquired the target, the whole tree suddenly blew up, disintegrating into splinters.

The _**boom**_ of the scorpion's main cannon followed right afterwards. Alex glanced over to the right and saw the tank plowing its way through the underbrush, knocking over the occasional tree that got in its way.

Alex glanced through his scope again and scowled in frustration—the Insurrectionists, who were now laying down suppressing fire, were firing around corners. That, and this type of ground was not suitable for sniping in a hot firefight, not one bit. The blue-eyed Spartan wordlessly clipped his sniper rifle to the magnetic weapons strip on his back, grabbing his backup M7 Caseless SMG, his weapon of choice when not using his sniper rifle. He broke cover and sprinted through the foliage towards the tank, taking several hits to his side as he went.

Alex took a running leap and jumped up on top of the scorpion's front chassis, perching on top of the front-left tread. The Illuminati boy in the turret gunner's nest, who was blazing away with the mounted MG, offered Alex a quick wave in greeting.

"Alex, what the hell are you doing on the tank?!" Tyrone exclaimed over the SQUADCOM as he caught sight of his friend riding the scorpion. "You're out in the open; find some cover!"

"I'm fine, Ty," Alex reassured his team leader, "This ground isn't suitable for sniping, and I'm not one for hiding behind tree roots all day long, so I…improvised."

There was a pause at the other end as Tyrone no doubt considered whether or not to order Alex back off of the tank, but he decided to leave things be. "Take out that heavy gun emplacement and tear 'em a new one. Watch yourself, though."

Alex contacted Jess, who was locked away in the driver's compartment, and directed her towards the Insurrectionist heavy machinegun emplacement. "It's keeping us suppressed; take it down!"

"Confirmed," Jess responded. Alex made sure to keep his head down as the scorpion's main cannon swiveled around towards the enemy heavy MG. It opened fire again, sending a ninety-millimeter tungsten ferrite high-explosive shell into the emplacement, putting it permanently out of commission. The MG fell silent.

"MG down, thanks for the assist," Tyrone said, "We're moving up. Keep an eye on the HAVOK; we do _not_ want anything happening to the detonation systems."

The scorpion pressed on, flanked by the other Spartans on the ground. Blaze kept up a steady stream of fire from the mounted MG, shredding anyone unlucky enough to be exposed in its path. The push through the woods went somewhat smoothly after the hastily-erected initial defenses were swept aside. The Insurrectionists clearly had not received much warning of the strike force's arrival, having time only to set up two heavy MG nests, one anti-armor emplacement, and maybe a platoonsworth of soldiers equipped with nothing stronger than assault rifles. Against Spartans they might have had some inkling of a prayer, but against Spartans and a _tank_…not so much.

Alex rode the tank's front-left tread through the rest of the stretch of forest, firing off his SMG into anyone who came too close to the tank. Some of the Insurrectionists seemed to have satchel charges—if one of those things got slapped onto the scorpion, it would make Blaze and Jess's lives very difficult.

Once or twice a rocket roared through the trees, but nothing ever hit the tank. Gradually, as the strike team advanced, the woods thinned out until they stopped altogether. An expanse of rolling, grassy hills was laid out before them. In the distance, the faint shape of a twisting, jutting mountain was just barely visible over the horizon.

Alex quickly unslung his sniper rifle and got a better look at the mountain. From what he could tell, it almost looked more like an elevated mesa than a simple mountain; it did not taper up to a peak. Instead, it had a broad, somewhat even surface that was just high enough above the rest of the surrounding hillscape to be visible from far away.

Just as Alex was looking away, a sudden wave of heat rushed over the scorpion, accompanied by a gust of hot wind and a loud, crackling roar. The blue-eyed Spartan glanced behind himself just quickly enough to see the sizzling bolt of red energy fading away into the sky. He snapped his gaze back to the front and peered through his scope again.

Cresting over the next hill came a formation of at least a dozen Tirque light tanks backed up by another, larger Tirque vehicle, one with not one, but _two_ cannons. Every one of those cannons was crackling, charging up and preparing to fire. Behind them were scores of the hulking reptilian aliens, all of them armed to the teeth and thirsty for a fight.

Blaze, who was wiping a spot of grime off of one of the barrels of the mounted turret, caught sight of the Tirque armor and infantry as well. His eyes widened, his mouth dropping open a tad bit, and he summed the whole situation up in a mere couple of words: "Ah…well, shit…"

* * *

Robin squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the shock of hitting the water below. He let out a yelp of pain and surprise when he instead fell onto a hard, wooden surface rather than cold seawater.

Robin opened his eyes and found that he was back on the ship. The twelve-year-old frowned in utter bewilderment—one moment he had been falling into the sea, the next he was sprawled back out on the ship's deck. His mouth opened and closed several times, the words not coming.

The Custodian let out a quiet sigh and crouched down, taking hold of Robin by the arm and hauling him up to his feet. "Do not try that again," the Custodian advised the boy, "You'll tire yourself out over nothing. Come with me." The Asian man began heading up the deck towards the captain's cabin, keeping an iron grip on Robin's arm, pulling the twelve-year-old along behind him.

"Ow, _ow,_" Robin complained as the Custodian jerked him up the stairs to the highest part of the deck towards the stern of the ship, "Watch the arm!"

The Custodian ignored the twelve-year-old's protests and walked up to the captain's cabin, pushing open the door and striding inside. There was a mahogany desk in the center of the room and a large mirror dominating the opposite wall.

The Custodian released his vice-like grip on Robin's arm, moving over to the desk and pushing it to the side.

Robin pumped his fist, letting out a small sigh of relief as the circulation returned. "Well, thanks for the tour," the twelve-year-old said, "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm gonna go try and drown myself again; last time didn't work out so well."

The Custodian snapped his fingers as Robin headed for the door and it vanished, becoming another section of wall. The captain's cabin was now a completely enclosed room.

Robin's shoulders sagged as he ran his fingers across the new section of wall that had used to be a door, already knowing that there was no point in trying to leave. If the Custodian wanted him to stay, then he was definitely going to stay, whether he wanted to or not.

"Please, stay a while," the Custodian said. He pointed at the large mirror which dominated the wall behind where the desk had been. After the Asian man snapped his fingers, the surface of the mirror rippled and the image it showed changed. Instead of showing Robin his own reflection, it began to show rolling green hills. There was a huge battle raging on those hills, at the edge of a forest. One UNSC scorpion tank was doing its utmost to fend off against nearly a dozen hostile armored vehicles.

Robin got a better look at the small figures blazing away at the Tirque combatants and saw that they were Spartans, clad in full MJOLNIR armor. They were like titans on the battlefield, plowing through anything that came too close like a lumberjack in a forest of saplings.

The twelve-year-old's attention was fixated on the Spartan who was riding on one of the tank's treads, the one with the sniper rifle. That was his father's sniper rifle. His parents _were_ coming for him. A lump rose in Robin's throat and his eyes stung as he watched his parents and their comrades fight off the attack on their position. He thought of his body—alone in that room, filled with needles and tubes. He did not want his parents to see him like that, but after they revived them…

The Custodian noticed Robin smiling and cocked an inquisitive eyebrow. "You know these people?"

Robin, unwilling to reveal too much, only shrugged. "I might."

The Custodian shrugged as well, returning his attention to the mirror-window. The image zoomed in on the tank, allowing Robin to have a better view of his father and the person who was manning the scorpion's mounted MG. His heart leaped as he saw the unkempt, jet-black hair, the mischievous blue eyes, and the lopsided, half-smile. "Blaze…" he murmured.

"I know much about you 'Humans', as you call yourselves, due to my exposure to the specimens who have been on my Construct for some time now. However, these Humans are different. They are like you. But I digress; what I really want to know is what _this_ object is…" the Custodian pointed at a large, reinforced which had been lashed to the top of the scorpion tank's chassis.

Robin peered closely at the armored container and was able to see the letters HAVOK stenciled along one of the sides. The name sounded familiar; he had heard it a few times during his parents' conversations concerning the Great War, and he had also heard the name during his time with the Illuminati Spec Ops on Nemesis III.

"It's a…it's a HAVOK warhead…" Robin whispered, his eyes widening as he finally recognized the name.

"A nuclear device?" the Custodian clarified.

"Yeah…yeah, HAVOKs were used by the UNSC during the Great War to take out high-value Covenant targets…as well as implementing scorched earth policies. If a key city or strongpoint was in danger of falling into enemy hands…we wiped it from existence with those things."

"It is a tool of mass destruction, then," the Custodian concluded, pausing to think for a few moments before a troubled look came over his face. "They mean to destroy this place. My whole Construct; they mean to _destroy_ it!"

"Well…yeah…I mean, you _are_ destroying a planet of theirs right now…"

The Custodian's face flushed a deep shade of red. "You knew of this all along! All this time you meant to destroy me, right under my very nose!" the Precursor entity's voice quivered with rage, an emotion it had not felt for eons.

It unnerved Robin, seeing the Custodian act in this manner. Normal AIs did not have Human emotions, but this entity was genuinely angry. The emotion was real; the anger really _was_ there. Even so, Robin was tired of having everyone's problems dumped onto _him_. First the Magistarium, then the Illuminati, then the Magistarium again, and now—if everything else was not enough—an ancient, eons-old Precursor entity was doing the same. The twelve-year-old had had enough. "Yeah, you're right; I knew about _all_ of this from that comfy little chair I'm trapped in right now! God, I thought things like you were supposed to have uber-logic skills. Think about it; if you start destroying someone's world, don't you think the owners of that world would at least _try_ to stop you?"

All at once, the Custodian's rage faded, sliding back beneath the calm, cool veneer of his external persona. Though the anger was gone, Robin could still see it, burning deep behind the Custodian's eyes. "I suppose it is wrong of me to blame you. You are not even a pubescent specimen of your race; logic would only dictate that you had nothing to do with this…this plot against me."

"It's not against you; it's against the bastards _using_ you! It's against the people using us both!" Robin shouted, his voice pleading, "Stop listening to them, stop destroying the planet below! Get rid of the people on this Construct—_they_ are the ones who my companions have come to destroy, not you."

"It does not work like that, I'm afraid," the Custodian replied, "Those people are in control of you, and you are in control of me. I cannot act against them. I am going to have to take immediate decisive action to combat this new threat."

"You mean you're gonna kill them?"

The Custodian hesitated, and then nodded. "That is one way of putting it, yes."

"But…but you _can't_…my parents are-" Robin broke off, nearly shocked speechless at what the Precursor entity was about to do. If he killed his parents, then Robin would be doomed to spend eternity in this prison. That was unacceptable. He paused for a second and collected his thoughts, conveying them in a more coherent manner. His mind was racing, trying to come up with possible solutions. No matter what he considered, the twelve-year-old could not think of anything that could save the Spartans trying to fight their way towards him, until a sudden thought presented itself to him out of the blue.

_No…no, that would never work. That's crazy_… Robin thought to himself. He then shrugged; it may have been a long-shot, but a long-shot was the best chance he would have. "You do realize that your Caretaker drones will not be able to kill the Spartans, right?"

The Custodian cocked an eyebrow, regarding the twelve-year-old with curiosity. "I'm afraid I have to disagree with you on that count. The Caretakers' combat capabilities are more than adequate for-"

"They won't be able to kill the Spartans," Robin interrupted the Precursor entity, "because of that huge force of Tirque heading their way. The moment they see your drones, they'll attack them and take them out. _Then_ how will you stop that nuke from detonating?"

"Why would you suggest that I allow the Meddlers to destroy your people?" the Custodian sounded suspicious, "This does not seem like a-"

"I never suggested that," Robin interrupted the Custodian once more, "If you attack the Spartans, your drones will be destroyed. If you allow the Tirque to attack the Spartans, what are the odds that a stray round or a burst from one of those Tirque tanks ends up hitting the UNSC scorpion and detonating the nuke anyway? The Tirque will just be doing the Spartans' dirty work for them. Sure, we would all die, but the planet below would be saved. To the Spartans, that would be worth dying for."

"What, then, do you suggest?" the Custodian began to sound the slightest bit impatient, waiting for Robin to get to his point.

Robin took a deep breath, and then laid down his trump card against the Custodian. "If both attacking and ignoring the Spartans results in failure—which it will—that leaves a third option. If you do not want that HAVOK to be prematurely detonated, _logic would dictate_ that you destroy the immediate threat to the nuke—the Tirque—_now_, and then focus on taking out the Spartans later."

"I have told you; I cannot attack the Meddlers. It goes against my-"

"You're right; you can't attack the Tirque. But what if _they_ attack _you?_" Robin posed the question to the Custodian. "Your drones can threaten them; _goad_ them into taking the first shot. Then it's a turkey-shoot for your servants from there on out."

The Custodian was silent, pondering and considering the ramifications of what the twelve-year-old had suggested. He found himself possessing a small measure of admiration for the Human child. The Precursor entity knew what the boy was trying to do, but the reason for the admiration was that the reasons the boy had provided for sparing the Spartans for now were sound ones. In effect, he had manipulated the Custodian into making a decision by using the same cold logic which the Precursor entity used all the time.

"I _do_ have self-preservation protocols," the Custodian admitted. "They were…unofficial, of course. My masters knew nothing about them. In case they ever tried to turn on me…well, I would not have to sit back and let them destroy me. Your logic is sound, youngling. However, do not forget that your companions _are still_ going to die. Once the threat of the Meddlers has been dealt with, I will focus my attention on them. This may cause you some psychological harm, so I shall leave you to your thoughts once more. Farewell."

The Custodian gave Robin a respectful nod and, just like that, vanished.

* * *

Robin blinked his eyes and suddenly found himself standing at the edge of a rippling, sparkling pool of water. It was perfectly still—its surface was an exact mirror image of the night sky above. The ancient sailing vessel was gone, along with the rough seas which it had been sailing. In its place were soft sand dunes, rolling away into the distance as far as the eye could see. Robin was standing at the edge of a large, clear pond. Palm trees, desert cacti, and exotic wild flowers surrounded the pool. The sky was pitch-black, sprinkled with an endless array of stars; billions of white, blue, and yellow points of light, blazing away in the sky. Dominating the nightscape was the moon; it was full tonight, and extra-large. Robin was able to see the patterns of its surface with the naked eye.

The moonlight was the one thing illuminating the desert oasis. It was bright enough for Robin to be able to clearly see everything around him, but not nearly as bright as sunlight. It was a softer, more subtle light.

Robin kicked off his shoes and sat on a rock at the edge of the pond, dabbling his feet in the water, lost in his own thoughts.

He had not saved his parents, but he _had_ bought them some time. Had it not been for him, they would probably be dead even now. His solution was only a fleeting, temporary one, but it would have to do. It would have to be enough.

Robin let out a weary sigh, fighting the urge to fall asleep right there on that boulder. He stared into the water, gazing long and hard at the ripples spreading out from his feet as if they held all the answers.

"_Now_ what…?" the twelve-year-old grumbled.


	67. Chapter 66: The Ambroses

Chapter Sixty-Six: The Ambroses

**0003 hours, November 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Precursor Construct, in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV**

"Flank speed! _Flank speed, _damn it!" Blaze shouted down to Jess, who was locked away in the driver's compartment of the scorpion.

"I got the message, _thank you!_" Jess shot back.

Blaze muttered something under his breath, but he flicked off the safeties on the mounted MG he was sitting behind, snapping back the priming lever, and rested his thumbs on the triggers.

Alex was kneeling on the front-left tread, far enough up the length of the tank to have a clear line of sight for anything that was coming from up ahead, and also far enough away from the mounted turret to not get caught in the crossfire. The drawback, of course, was that he was painfully exposed to any incoming weaponsfire. If his shield went down he would have to take cover, or his life would become very difficult.

He squeezed the trigger of his sniper rifle and it reported with a loud **_crack_**, sending a high-velocity sabot round streaking through the air and into the eye of one of the reptilian Tirque warriors, dropping the giant lizard-like alien like a pigeon during a shotgun shoot. He adjusted his aim and fired at the Hinaptryi warrior next to the fallen one, but the round pinged off of its helm. A second round took the helm off, and the last round in the mag shattered its skull.

As the ground began to shake from the beating it was taking from all of the volleys of energy bolts which the Tirque tanks were firing at the UNSC strike force, Tyrone's voice came over the SQUADCOM. The team leader did not sound nervous—he had gone through the entire Great War without sounding nervous—but there was a tiny trace of anxiety detectable only to those who knew him inside and out. Alex picked up on it, and quietly swore to himself. Something would have to be really bad for Tyrone to sound like that. "Boys, I've gotten COM transmissions from the other strike forces; they've reached the central hub as well," Tyrone began, "And…uh…no extra pressure or anything, but our HAVOK is the only one left. We've lost all contact with War—Special Operations Commander 'Xhilnosee's team. The other teams have taken light casualties, but they have lost their nukes. They are proceeding to our location with all possible speed…all we have to do is survive until they reach us."

"Are we able to detonate the HAVOK here?" Moira asked, shouting to make herself heard over the roar of the Tirque ordinance.

"This isn't the ideal location, but given the present circumstances…" Tyrone hesitated, considering the suitability of the current location for detonation, "Yeah, this place should work. If a HAVOK was detonated here, the force generated would still be enough to break this whole damn Construct apart. Either way, Sigma Octanus would be safe."

"Well, then, what the hell are we waiting for?!" Blaze exclaimed from his position on top of the scorpion, "Get this damn thing off o' my tank!"

That turned out to be easier said than done, as Jess was forced to keep the scorpion in constant movement. If she kept the scorpion in one place for too long, the oncoming Tirque light tanks would roast it. Ultimately, Alex had to detach the armored container which had the HAVOK warhead inside, and push it over to the edge of the scorpion. Tyrone and James quickly caught it before it hit the ground, safely lowering it.

"Randall! Grab that log and drag it over here!" Tyrone shouted to one of the other Spartans, "We need some cover! James, open that sucker up and start the countdown!"

As Randall started to heave a large tree trunk which had been felled by an explosion from one of the Tirque energy bolts, James carried the armored container over to a small crater in the ground, firmly planting it into the earth and popping open its mini-console, inputting the appropriate commands to prime the nuke.

"Give me a few minutes; I need to prep it!" James exclaimed.

"Easier said than done, James!" Tyrone grunted, backing up and diving fro cover behind the tree trunk, which Randall had managed to drag over in front of the crater that the HAVOK nuke was in.

The main cannon of the scorpion roared, sending an armor-piercing tungsten ferrite shell slamming into a Tirque light tank which had strayed too close. Alex kept on picking off unsuspecting Hinaptryi who exposed themselves to his line of fire. The sharp **_cracks_ **from his sniper rifle mixed in with the staccato bursts from the Spartans' BR55 battle rifles, and then with the perpetual clatter of the mounted MG.

Blaze pressed his thumbs down on the triggers, letting the MG blaze to life, spitting death into the Tirque at over seven hundred rounds per minute. A fierce joy surged through the thirteen-year-old Illuminati boy as he blazed away with the MG. The sight of flying bits of flesh and bone as the lead tore the Hinaptryi several hundred new ones was enough to put a wide grin on his face.

Even Tyrone cocked a curious eyebrow when he glanced over at Blaze, who was beginning to laugh maniacally and shout obscenities as he brought the turret about, emptying dozens of rounds into the corpses of already-slain Hinaptryi warriors before adjusting his aim and peppering a Tirque light tank which was trying to outflank the Spartans' position.

"That kid must have had one really _effed_-_up_ childhood…" Tyrone muttered to Randall, ducking low as a bolt from a Hinaptryi energy rifle slammed into the wood which he was hunkered down behind.

"Yeah, like _ours_ wasn't," Randall retorted, rolling his eyes as he slapped a fresh mag into his battle rifle.

"That insane kid on the turret over there? Yeah, Randall, he killed two men when he was eight years old," Sam said, dropping in on the conversation. "Just thought you should know."

"_Eight_ years old?" Randall sounded skeptical, "Hot damn…even Master Chief himself—rest his soul—didn't manage to murder anyone until he was fourteen… remind me again why the hell that kid is not a Spartan?"

"Well he hasn't quite reached the augmentation age yet," Moira shrugged, "Maybe the spooks could-"

"Hey! Less talking, more shooting!" Tyrone exclaimed. "Save planning for the future for when we actually _have_ a future!"

"And…_done!_" James shouted over from his crater, "The HAVOK is primed; activating the sixty-minute countdown!"

"Whoa, hold up!" Alex shouted over the SQUADCOM. The blue-eyed Spartan leaped off of the scorpion tank as it rumbled by, striding through all of the laserfire to the place behind the tree trunk where the rest of the Spartans were taking cover. "Sixty minutes isn't enough time for Sam and me to-"

"Alex, that is not our mission!" Tyrone replied, interrupting his friend, "Don't start making this personal. Our mission is to stop this Construct from destroying Sigma Octanus IV; damn it all, you should-"

"I _know_ what the mission is, Ty!" Alex snapped, balling his hands into fists, "But you and I both know that that is not why Sam and I are here!"

"Alex, rescuing your son was a secondary objective. Without our pelican, there is no point! We have no way off this Construct; we must act _now!_ James, start the countdown!"

"James, _no!_" Alex shouted, but it was too late. The other Spartan had already started the sixty-minute countdown. Now nothing could stop it. The blue-eyed Spartan swore and leaped to his feet, turning on his heel and heading away towards the scorpion.

Tyrone anticipated this. The large Spartan shot forward with a speed unbecoming of his size, seizing Alex's arm in an iron grip. "Alex, don't make me force you to stay! Don't try to leave our objective! You are a _Spartan_, and _Spartans_ complete their objectives. _Always_, without exception! Even if it means their death, or the sacrifice of all they hold dear!"

"No, Ty, I'm not a Spartan," Alex replied calmly, "I stopped being a Spartan the moment our warthog crashed on the Ark. I stopped being a Spartan the moment I came back to life in the ICU of the UNSC military hospital in Sydney. I stopped being a Spartan in that very same hospital's maternity ward when Sam had Robin, and I started being a father. Robin was kidnapped, snatched away under my very nose! His own parents were not there for him when they should have been! _That's_ what I am now, Ty; I am a very, _very_ pissed-off father who is going to get his son back, even if it means going against everything I've been taught ever since I set foot off of that pelican on Onyx all those years ago. If you had children, you would understand!"

"And if _you_ had not had children, we wouldn't be _in_ this clusterfuck right now!" Tyrone retorted. "You of all people should have known that people like us…we aren't _meant_ to have normal lives. We aren't meant to have loved ones, or even family. It would only bring harm and suffering to them. Your son is the shining example. He's the son of two Spartans, and that automatically makes him a target. What about when he grows up? You think ONI won't sink its claws into him? How do you-"

"I don't have time for this! Let—me—go," Alex hissed, speaking those last three words in that same calm voice which only faintly betrayed the churning emotions underneath them.

Tyrone did not budge.

"I'm asking you as a friend; let me go!"

Tyrone still did not budge. "You're not going anywhere, Alex. Don't make me-"

"Now I'm asking you as a man with a gun; _let me go!_" Alex's hand shot down to his leg, drawing out his magnum sidearm, which he quickly pressed against Tyrone's helmet.

Tyrone intercepted Alex's hand, clamping down on the smaller Spartan's wrist, squeezing with all his strength until Alex was forced to drop the weapon. Tyrone then drew up his hand, flattening it for the upcoming strike which would knock Alex unconscious. "I'm sorry, old friend, but I can't trust you here any longer."

Tyrone struck, his hand slicing down through the air towards Alex's head, but it was stopped by another armored arm. "Sam, what-"

Sam stepped in close, locking her arms with Tyrone's. "Sorry, Ty…but he's my son too."

"You are _not_ walking away from here," Tyrone stated again, his voice changing tack, becoming lower, quieter, more dangerous. He brought his free arm around in an uppercut strike aimed towards Sam's neck, but when it was supposed to connect, Sam was not there. Tyrone grunted with effort as he tried to subdue Sam, but the red-haired Spartan was too fast for him.

That was how it had always been; Tyrone had always been the strongest fighter, but Sam had always been faster, able to deliver multiple strikes seemingly at once while her opponent was still recovering from the first.

A sharp knee crashed into Tyrone's abdomen, followed up by a quick strike to his solar plexus, and—for good measure—Sam stomped her foot down on Tyrone's instep.

The dark-skinned Spartan grunted in pain and faltered momentarily, his entire body throbbing from the hits. For anyone else, that momentary pause would have been unnoticeable, but for Sam it felt like a fifteen-minute intermission between two halves of a show. She planted a sharp kick right into the center of Tyrone's chest, sending him flying back several yards. The whole exchange had lasted less than five seconds.

Sam turned around and sprinted off with her husband over to the scorpion, leaping on top of the tank. Both Spartans grabbed hold of something as Jess threw the tank into a sharp right turn in order to avoid being atomized by a huge lance of energy from the lone Tirque heavy tank.

"Jess, get us out of here!" Alex shouted.

"Come again?!" Jess exclaimed over the SQUADCOM.

"Jess, Blaze, I'm going to lay this down straight," Sam interrupted, "The countdown for the HAVOK has been started, meaning we have about an hour to get Robin out of here. Any objections?"

"I'm already moving," Jess replied, pushing the scorpion's engine as far as it could go, which was near sixty-five miles per hour. Scorpions usually never traveled at such speed, but if the ground was relatively flat—which it was—and provided the driver did not spend any excess power firing the main cannon while in transit, it could be done.

"What about your friends back there?" Blaze asked, casting an uncertain glance back over his shoulder at the Tirque tanks which were closing in on the Spartans. "You realize they won't last another five minutes without this tank."

"Let them stick to their 'mission'," Alex muttered. "Don't worry about them; they'll be getting help very soon. Right about now, in fact."

Right on cue, the Tirque heavy tank suddenly brewed up in a large, oily explosion as a searing bolt of blue plasma slammed into it, melting through the tough external armor. As the smoke cleared away, the familiar shape of a wraith tank came into view, flanked by three ghosts and a score of black-armored Spec Ops Elites.

"They'll be fine," Alex reaffirmed his last statement.

"The engine temperatures are gonna hit red soon!" Jess warned the others.

"Keep it moving at this speed as long as possible!" Alex replied, "Every second is going to count!"

The push towards the mesa in the distance was uneventful for the first ten minutes. Alex and Sam were riding on the front treads, their weapons out and ready to fire at a moment's notice.

Alex was the first to see the cloud. He looked over to the horizon, spying a dark cloud in the sky which appeared to be moving towards them.

"What is this; the Precursors made it so that there can be storms?" Sam wondered aloud, also having spotted the strange cloud, "Exactly how stupid were they?"

"Wait a tick…" Alex shouldered his sniper rifle and peered at the cloud through his scope, zooming in on it as far as possible. Though no one was able to see his eyes through his opaque golden faceplate, they easily doubled in size in shock as he discerned what the cloud actually was. "That's no cloud…"

"Hm?" Sam cast her husband a quizzical sidelong glance.

"It's…" Alex searched for the right words, but could not find them. He wordlessly handed his rifle over to Sam, gesturing for her to take a look.

Sam glanced at the cloud through her scope for a few seconds before lowering the rifle and silently handing it back. "That…can't be good…"

"_Ohh_…" Blaze gave a mocking agonized, drawn-out groan, "This drama and suspense is just _killing_ me! What are you-"

As the thirteen-year-old Illuminati boy continued to speak, the 'cloud' grew close enough to study with the naked eye. It was not a cloud at all; it was a formation of thousands, maybe millions of the Caretaker drones which Tyrone had previously spotted from O'Riley's pelican back in the mountain range biosphere of the Construct. Millions of drones, all flying through the air close enough together to give the illusion of a cloud to anyone who looked at them from afar.

Blaze fell silent, his mouth forming a quiet "Oh". Instinctively, he grabbed the handles of the mounted MG, swiveling the LAAG upwards and acquiring the drones as targets.

"Hold your fire!" Sam nearly screamed at the thirteen-year-old. "They're passing us by; shooting them just _might_ piss them off!"

Sure enough, the cloud of Caretaker drones passed by overhead, paying the speeding scorpion absolutely no heed. Blaze relaxed, taking his thumbs off of the triggers.

A sigh of relief escaped through Alex's lips, but a deep, nagging sense of unease remained. All of those machines made him nervous—they could ignore you one second and then attack you the next. "Why do I get the feeling that we haven't seen the last of those things?" the blue-eyed Spartan murmured.

"Reminds me of the Sentinels too much," Sam agreed.

"The what?" Jess asked from below.

"Sentinels," Sam repeated herself.

"Small drones pretty much like the ones that just passed us by," Alex quickly explained, "They betrayed us during the end of the Great War, long story short."

The gentle, rolling hills gradually grew steeper and steeper until they resembled small mountains more than mere inclinations. The mesa in the distance grew much closer as the tank kept on moving through the hills.

When the mesa was finally starting to look close, only five or so kilometers distant, Blaze broke the silence which he had been keeping ever since his near-miss with the Caretakers. "No one ever answered my question from earlier, so I'm gonna go ahead and ask again: how exactly are we gonna get off this bloody shit-heap?"

"We'll hitch a ride with the Elites, I guess," Sam replied.

"From all of the chatter I've been getting from them, they got mauled worse than we did." Jess spoke up, "How do we know the Elites still have their phantoms?"

Sam chuckled quietly, looking back out towards the mesa. "We don't."

"Ah…" Blaze sighed, "Wonderful. No, really, that's wonderful; I've _always_ wanted to die before my fourteenth birthday, and now I'm finally getting the chance!"

The scorpion crested over the next foothill and the central mesa came into full view. Looking at it close up, Alex could see that it was not exactly a mesa; it was actually a collection of high cliff faces, buttresses, and crags which were pressed close together. A labyrinth of ravines and gorges ran in between those cliff faces and crags. Rivers and streams also ran all throughout the canyon. Some of them flowed alongside the ravines, vanishing underground or into clefts in the rocks. Others ran high up on the tops of the cliffs and buttresses. Many waterfalls could be seen as the water from above fell down to the ground below.

As the scorpion crested the hill, the first thing its occupants noticed was the sounds of a raging battle between the Caretaker drones and the Tirque-Insurrectionist forces which were stationed in front of the mesa. The Caretakers were firing blindingly bright white energy beams into the Hinaptryi warriers and the Insurrectionist forces, who returned fire with their heavy weaponsfire and red laser bursts. Caretakers were falling out of the sky, crashing to the ground in bright, yellow-white explosions. At the same time, Insurrectionists and Hinaptryi were being taken down as the Caretakers swarmed their positions. Some of the Caretaker drones ganged up to take down Tirque light tanks and Insurrectionist armor. The vehicles did not stand a chance against the massed fire; there were simply too many targets to hit. The Caretaker drones were tearing through them like a ripsaw through balsa wood.

The infantry were faring better; they could dodge the Caretakers' shots a lot easier than the more cumbersome vehicles. On the flipside, they could not hit them with heavy MGs, as whenever they tried to set up a gun emplacement, the Caretakers would take it out before it managed to squeeze off more than a mag of lead.

"Good thing you didn't shoot them," Jess quipped. "_Very_ good thing."

"Keep us going at full speed, take a wide berth," Alex suggested, "We need to hurry, but we won't survive plowing through that mess down there. Keep us at arm's length."

"Arm's length…right…" Jess murmured, throwing the scorpion forward down the hill at a breakneck pace, forcing the two Spartans to grab hold of the edge of the treads in order to avoid getting thrown off the tank.

As the tank circumvented the raging battle—it was too big to be called a skirmish—several Insurrectionist soldiers who were fleeing the sight were gesticulating and pointing at the UNSC tank, shouting for backup or reinforcements. There was a series of rapid cracks as bullets pinged off of the scorpion's armor. Alex jerked as a shot caught him in the shoulder. His MJOLNIR's energy shields shimmered as they absorbed the hit.

"At one point in time, every person finds themselves at a metaphorical crossroads in their life," Alex sighed, shouldering his sniper rifle and adjusting the scope to focus in on the soldiers who had opened fire, "These fellows just took a wrong turn."

Ten shots later, the scorpion was no longer taking anymore hits from those soldiers.

Jess angled the scorpion and cut through a small part of the battle's fringes, crunching over the burnt-out shell of an Insurrectionist transport vehicle. Several of the Caretakers briefly swiveled around and regarded the scorpion, but they ignored the Spartans and turned back around to find a new target.

"Creepy little wankers…" Blaze muttered, "Looks like they're staring right _through_ you…"

"How long before they decide to clean _us_ up?" Jess interjected, completely in agreement with her companion.

"Oh, Jesus, that just gave me a huge sense of déjà-vu…" Alex grunted under his breath.

Jess drove the scorpion through the fields and into the main gorge in the mesa-canyon. There were no hostile forces in the gorge; everything that might have once been in there was probably either dead or getting slaughtered in the outlying fields by the Caretakers.

"Any idea where we're going?" Blaze piped up as they proceeded through a shallow river crossing, heading ever-deeper into the canyon, "Just curious; I forgot the map and compass."

"I've got limited sensor readings on the whole canyon from the scorpion's guidance systems," Jess replied, "There's a large basin in the center of this whole place…I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that whatever controls this whole Construct is there. This gorge leads right to it…Precursors probably built it that way."

The advance through the canyon gorge took a little longer, as Jess had to slow the scorpion down to accommodate the rougher terrain. Luckily, the scorpion's four-tread design allowed it to traverse just about anything short of a sheer cliff face.

The gorge took several twisting turns through the canyon. Several times it grew narrow enough for three scorpions to tightly fit side-by-side; other times it was a quarter of a kilometer wide. There were also a few times when the scorpion had to drive through a waterfall which was splashing down from an overhang far above.

Blaze had taken to reclining back in his seat again, propping his feet up on the handles of his turret. "Not to be cliché or anything, but…are we there yet? That nuke isn't getting any younger…neither is my life expectancy…"

"How much longer do we have on the countdown?" Jess asked.

Sam checked the mission clock on her HUD. "Thirty-seven minutes."

"Not even gonna say it," Blaze chuckled, stretching his arms above his head as he spoke, "'We're completely fucked' 'There's no way we can get back in time' 'I wonder if getting atomized is going to hurt' 'Now I'm _never_ gonna have that Sweet Sixteen I've been dreaming about since I was four years old'; _not_ gonna say it."

"You know something?" Sam spoke up, glancing at Alex, old memories being stirred in her mind. "He reminds me of Em."

"Say what, now?" Blaze cocked an eyebrow.

"Emma-G132—she was one of our teammates during the Great War. She…died on the Ark," Alex explained to the Illuminati boy. His memories flashed before his eyes and, for a tiny moment, he was standing back on September Beach, twelve years ago, with Sam, Tyrone, Robin-G227, Captain McCandlish, and General Eckhart, gazing down at Em's plasma-riddled corpse. Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed. Alex took a moment, thinking on what Sam had said and couldn't help but laugh. "Never really occurred to me until you said it…but yeah, he _does_ remind me of Em…"

"You mean _she_ had devilishly-attractive looks too?" Blaze's other eyebrow slid up his forehead to join its counterpart. "Oh thank God; here I was thinking I was all alone in this universe!"

"No, she had a tongue that could slice Covenant battlecruisers in half," Sam quipped.

"Can't argue with you there," Jess grumbled from below.

"What was that?" Blaze hollered over at the sealed driver's compartment, "I'm sorry; I couldn't hear you over the roaring sound of me not asking for your opinion!"

"Not to break up your little chat, but…I think we're here…" Alex interrupted, his attention focused on what was in front of them. The scorpion had turned one last corner and emerged into a culvert, a wide depression in the canyon which was shaped like the inside of a bowl. A steep, rocky hill was in the middle of the basin; a sharp incline surrounded by small buttresses and natural pillars. Waterfalls thundered all throughout the formation.

At the very top of the mini-mountain was what could only be a temple. It was a simple white structure of arches, domes, and other neat, geometrical shapes and patterns, not dissimilar to Forerunner structures. A thin, winding path led up to its front entrance. It was a tight fit, but the scorpion was just able to squeeze its way onto the path to the top.

Alex and Sam both started prepping their weapons again for close-quarters combat. Alex stowed his sniper rifle away on his back in favor of his SMG, while Sam slapped a fresh mag into her BR55, cleaning off the sights of the weapon.

When the scorpion reached the temple's entrance, Alex leaped off of the tank, walking up to the huge doors, running a hand over the smooth alabaster surface. He looked around for a few moments before shrugging. "No idea how this thing opens. Jess, will you do the honors?"

Jess's reply came in the form of a deafening **_boom_** and a small gout of flame as she primed the scorpion's main cannon and fired a high-explosive tungsten ferrite shell into the doors of the Precursor temple. The alabaster stone cracked and shattered, flying in every direction. Sam and Alex's shields actually flared up once or twice as they deflected shards and shrapnel from the blast. Blaze was forced to duck down deep into the gunner's next in order to avoid getting hit.

"Take it slow and hang back behind us," Alex ordered Jess, gesturing for her to drive the tank through the newly-created opening. "Sam and I will take point. Blaze, keep your thumbs on those triggers; never know when we're going to need some extra firepower."

The two Spartans moved ahead of the scorpion and headed deeper into the temple. The interior of the temple was peaceful and tranquil. Sunlight streamed through the many wall openings and orifices in the ceiling. In many places, there was no ceiling; it was open to the elements. Streams of water trickled down from the ceiling and flowed through the atriums and corridors, flowing outside of the temple and down the mountain or into fountain pools.

Then, the whole spell was shattered by the first burst of laserfire that snapped down from one of the ceiling orifices as a Hinaptryi warrior got Sam in its sights. The laser burst caught Sam in the chest. Her energy shields flared white for a brief moment and she was driven back several steps by the force of the hit, but she was otherwise unharmed. Alex, meanwhile, had whipped out his sniper rifle and was already taking aim at the reptilian alien's head before the energy burst had even struck his wife. When the alien adjusted its aim to hit Alex, it found itself staring down the barrel of the blue-eyed Spartan's sniper rifle. Alex squeezed his index finger, and the resounding **_crack_** was the last thing the Hinaptryi warrior ever heard.

The large alien's body pitched through the ceiling opening and fell to the floor with a loud, echoing thud. All at once, at least twenty Hinaptyri warriors streamed into the atrium which the two Spartans were in. They were all clad in a ceremonial scarlet battledress. They had to be honor guards of some sort.

"Looks like the Tirque probably has royalty or something here," Blaze observed, coming to the same conclusion.

"Back to the scorpion!" Alex exclaimed, grabbing his wife by the elbow and pulling her back to the center of the atrium, where the scorpion sat waiting.

More aliens joined the Hinaptryi honor guards, smaller, thinner, humanoid aliens with slightly elongated heads, large black eyes, and distinctively blue skin. They wore white robes and wielded elegant, razor-sharp quarterstaff weapons, which they twirled around their heads and bodies in a dizzying dance, catching and reflecting the light off of the gleaming silver blades.

"What the hell are those things?!" Sam exclaimed.

"Sentia!" Jess shouted back, "The upper ruling class of the Tirque—basically like the Covenants' prophets, only a lot better at fighting…"

"A lot better at _dying_ too!" Blaze interjected, and then he pressed down on the triggers of the mounted MG, spinning it up to life and opening fire into the charging aliens. The Hinaptyri were better able to shrug off the damage than their Sentian counterparts, who—wearing nothing except their white robes—were torn to shreds by the superior firepower.

Alex pulled his M7 back out and went to town, spraying clip after clip into the oncoming aliens. Gradually, the Hinaptyri warriors' ceremonial armor became dented and damaged, falling away piece by piece.

Jess fired the scorpion's main cannon at wherever she saw the Tirque warriors clumping up, aiming at targets that were far enough away from the tank to avoid harming her compatriots.

A battered and bleeding Hinaptryi leaped on top of the scorpion's front, unleashing a bellowing roar as it lumbered forward, pulling back a fist and striking Alex full-on in the chest.

Alex felt some of his ribs crack and was hurled several yards away, flying clean off of the tank.

Two more Hinaptryi joined the first and all three charged forward, intending on silencing the MG which was taking down so many of their comrades.

Blaze was only too happy to oblige their death wishes. The thirteen-year-old Illuminati boy swiveled the turret around and blazed away at the three Tirque warriors at point-blank range, howling and laughing like a madman as he tore them apart.

The lead Hinaptryi and the one to its left did not make it more than halfway. The last Hinaptryi actually managed to touch Blaze's face with one of its claws before it succumbed to its wounds and slumped back, bleeding out from the dozens of bullet wounds in its torso.

Sam kicked the corpses off of the tank and jumped off herself. "Don't let them get behind you!" the red-haired Spartan warned Jess. She then sprinted into the throng of alien corpses and wounded, finding a dead Sentian. She grabbed its quarterstaff blade in favor of her BR55, which she stuck onto her magnetic weapons strip on the back of her MJOLNIR.

Blaze kept up the withering fire from the turret, successfully repelling any and all attempts to board the scorpion from the front. Several times, Hinaptyri managed to circle around behind the tank, but Jess was luckily able to bring the main cannon around to deal with them personally, resulting in several near-misses, but no hits, which was still a victory.

Alex picked himself back up off of the ground, wincing as his fractured ribs protested to the movement. _Common Alex_…_you've had worse than this_… the blue-eyed Spartan thought to himself, gritting his teeth and picking his M7 back up. A shining blade came whistling out of nowhere and Alex ducked, falling forward into a tight barrel-roll. As he landed back on his feet, he had already turned around and raised his M7, catching the surprised Sentian out in the open. The blue-eyed Spartan squeezed the trigger and riddled the blue-skinned alien, dropping it where it stood.

As Alex reached the scorpion, climbing back up onto its tread, he spied his wife down further into the atrium. She was being the titan on the battlefield she had always been, weaving through the aliens with the quarterstaff blade like a shadow, slicing throat after throat, severing limb after limb.

Five minutes later, the atrium was devoid of all non-human life.

"Time check?" Jess requested.

"HAVOK detonation in…twenty-nine minutes," Alex replied.

"We have to keep moving!" Sam exclaimed, her voice betraying none of the fiery impatience which was dominating her mentality. "The inner sanctum is just on the other side of the next courtyard!"

Jess was already moving the scorpion forward through the atrium. She sank a high-explosive shell into the doorway at the other end of the room, conveniently widening the gap to allow the scorpion to slide through.

There was nothing in the next atrium. Not even a single defensive emplacement.

"Did we just kill everything in this temple back there?" Sam wondered aloud.

"Most of whoever was in here were probably on their way to deal with Tyrone and all the others…then got jumped by the Caretakers," Alex surmised. "This place was understrength."

Beyond the next courtyard was a large room which seemed almost like a Great Hall of sorts, except that there were no tables or benches. It was a wide-open, empty space. At the other end was a huge set of double doors. They were covered in moss and had thousands of tiny hieroglyphs inscribed on their surfaces.

"Pretty doors," Sam observed.

"Mm-hm," Alex grunted, "Crying shame. Jess?"

"Right behind you," Jess replied, aiming the scorpion's main cannon at the doors and opening fire. The doors actually held against the high-explosive shell. Remarkably, they were also still stubbornly closed.

"That's what I want my car to be made out of…" Blaze remarked.

"Give it a round of AP," Alex suggested.

"Switching to armor-piercing…firing…" Jess murmured, manipulating the controls of the scorpion and firing the main cannon once more. This time the doors blew inwards, clearing the way into the inner sanctum of the Constructs command temple.

The inner sanctum was very different from the rest of the temple. It was like a warm, lush jungle. Greenery and plantlife dominated the entire space, interspersed with streams which trickled throughout the area. Pathways were laid out as well, running in between the trees and over the streams. There were several small, gazebo-shaped buildings in the inner sanctum, but Alex and Sam's attention was focused on a smaller, hemisphere-shaped structure made out of the same alabaster stone as the rest of the temple. This structure was situated on a small islet in the middle of a large lake, accessible by a long, thin bridge.

"He's in there," Alex pointed to the building, observing it more closely with his sniper rifle.

"How do you know?" Blaze asked.

"I just know. Besides, that building is in the center of this whole place—so far, our rule of thumb in dealing with finding anything in this place is 'When in doubt, head for the center'."

"Can't argue with that," Blaze conceded.

There were a few Sentia in the area, but Blaze had some more fun with his MG turret and brought their lives to an abrupt, premature end.

Jess followed the winding pathway all the way to the bridge, which was large enough for two scorpions to fit side-by-side, allowing her to comfortably drive down its length without running into any problems. "Should I sink a round into the side?" Jess asked as the tank rumbled off of the bridge and onto the islet, coming to a stop in front of the hemispherical white dome.

"_No!_" Sam snapped suddenly, but she calmed herself down and repeated herself. "No, that might hurt Robin…we have no idea where he is inside that place; blowing up part of the structure would probably hurt or even kill him. I have not come this far to lose him _now_, of all times…wait here."

Sam hopped off of the tank and cautiously approached the domed structure. There was nothing special or extravagant about the surface of the structure, except for one spot where there was a long silver oval which seemed to pulse as Sam drew near.

The red-haired Spartan frowned at the oval. Her mind flashed back to the op Team Rapier had undertaken in the Ural Mountains during the Battle of Earth, when they had infiltrated that Forerunner complex, how the mechanism had responded to the touch of a Human…

Suddenly inspired to do so, Sam removed the armored gauntlet covering her right hand, exposing her bare skin, which was somewhat pale from being encased in MJOLNIR armor for so long. She flexed her fingers, dexterously bending and curling them for a second, and then flattened them and pressed them against the silver oval.

The oval was warm to her touch and, when she made contact, it pulsed blue several times.

There was a quiet _snick_ and a doorway suddenly appeared. It was not an actual doorway that simply slid or swung open; it was a section of the alabaster wall which had…changed somehow. Whereas a moment ago it had been solid alloy, it seemed less substantial now. Sam reached out a tentative hand to the odd-looking section of wall and nearly jumped when her fingers slid right through, followed by the rest of her arm.

As Alex, Blaze, and Jess watched, Sam stepped _into_ the wall, vanishing inside the structure. A moment passed, and then another. Alex wanted to follow his wife, but he felt apprehensive. Who knew what condition his son was going to be in, or if he was even _alive_—

"_Ace! Get in here!_"

That was enough to galvanize Alex into moving. Followed closely by Blaze and Jess, the blue-eyed Spartan walked up to the place where his wife had stepped through the wall and reached out his own hand, making sure that the doorway was still there. It would have looked foolish if he had simply walked into the wall, only to bounce back onto his ass.

The inside of the domed structure was the same shape as the outside, but the material was different; the walls were made out of an almost liquid-like material, flowing freely around the curve of the room, pulsing with varying color and intensity.

In the center of the room was a throne, for lack of a better term. It was a large, high-seated chair which had numerous contraptions set up around its base. Dozens of tubes and wires snaked their way up from these contraptions and into the body of the throne's occupant.

Alex's heart seized in his throat as he looked at his son. For four months he had waited for this moment, dreamed of this moment; the time when he and Sam were finally reunited with their only child.

Robin was sitting in the chair, motionless and unconscious. His arms, legs, and head were immobilized, prevented from moving by a series of metallic manacles clamped around his neck, wrists, and legs. There were tubes which ran into in his arms, legs, torso, and down his throat. His chest slowly rose and fell as he breathed, but that was the only sign of life he showed. His skin was deathly pale and his face looked as if it were bloodless.

"Oh, Robin…what have they done to you…?" Sam murmured, brushing a lock of her son's hair out of his eye.

Alex wasted no time. "Get those damn tubes out of him," he ordered, crouching down behind the throne and setting about disabling the mechanisms around the chair. He then joined Jess and Blaze as they gently slid the tubes of the life-support systems out of the twelve-year-old.

The blue-eyed Spartan eased the tubes reaching down Robin's throat out of his mouth bit by bit until the ends came out, flopping down onto the ground, useless. The tubes in Robin's arms and chest came out next.

"What about the restraints?" Jess asked, rapping the manacle which was clamped down over Robin's left wrist with her knuckles.

Alex wordlessly grabbed hold of the manacle and yanked, pulling the metal restraint clean out of the throne. He and Sam did the same to the other four restraints, completely freeing their son. Robin, unhindered by his restraints and by the tubes which had been pumping forced life into him for the past several weeks, began to sink, sliding off of the chair with nothing to hold him in place.

Sam caught him before he completely slid out, laying him flat on the ground. Alex crouched down next to her and cupped a hand around the back of his son's head, pulling him into a sitting-up position. He felt for Robin's pulse, feeling the arteries in his neck.

"Is he…is he okay?" Jess asked tentatively, taking an unsteady step forward.

"He's alive," was all Sam could say in reply.

Robin's breathing grew faster and heavier as his four rescuers crouched over him, waiting for him to come around.

"Come on, Ace," Alex whispered, "_Come on_…" The blue-eyed Spartan reached up to his own neck and unsealed his helmet, taking it off and laying it on the ground in front of him, exposing his face and head.

After a minute, Robin finally let out a quiet groan and began to stir, cracking his eyelids open. His arms and fingers twitched a little bit as they got used to moving again after weeks of disuse. "He's waking up!" Sam exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement.

Robin opened his eyes for the first time since he had been put into the throne. Before he could even look around, the first thing he saw were two other eyes right in front of his, two large, piercing, electric-blue eyes identical to his own. Gradually, as his vision returned, the twelve-year-old could see the rest of the face to which those eyes belonged. He did not need to see the rest of the face to know who it was, though; he knew only one person with eyes that shade of blue.

Alex watched his son open his eyes and look at him. At first the twelve-year-old's eyes and expression were blank and—for a terrifying moment—Alex was afraid that his son would not remember anything, that he had become a husk, hollowed out by whatever the throne had done to him.

Then Robin spoke, saying just a single word that washed all of Alex's fears away. "…Dad?"

Alex could not hold himself in any longer. A quiet sob escaped from his lips and he held his son tight. Sam quickly joined in, completely reuniting the Ambrose family for the first time since the beginning of August.

Even Blaze found that he had a lump in his throat as he watched his friend and his friend's parents embrace each other. Deep down, he also felt a small measure of envy; he had never had any parents to be loved by, to be hugged by. All his life he had been alone. He glanced at Jess and shook his head, taking back that thought. He had been very close to being alone, but having a constant friend was still nothing like having an actual family who loved you every hour of every day.

"Mom? Dad? What-"

"_Shh,_" Sam silenced her son, placing a finger over his lips. "Try not to talk too much."

"What's our time looking like?" Jess asked, bringing the Ambroses back to the present.

"Uh…" Alex flitted his gaze over to the mission clock on his HUD, glancing at how much time had elapsed. "About…twenty minutes."

"_Right,_ I'm gonna go and get the tank moving," Jess said. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the twelve-year-old, looking at him for a few seconds before stepping out through the insubstantial wall.

"Can he walk?" Blaze asked, fidgeting uncomfortably near the doorway to the outside. He wanted to leave, and he wanted to do it _now_.

Alex repeated the question to his son. Robin grunted and tried to move, starting to climb to his feet, but his limbs were still about as sturdy as wet spaghetti after over two weeks of dormancy. Robin did not make it very far, collapsing back into his father's arms. "I…I don't think so," the twelve-year-old rasped. He tried to get up again, but Alex stopped him.

"No problem; that's what we have _these_ for," Alex patted his biceps. He reached down and picked up his helmet, pulling it on and sealing it, polarizing the faceplate. He then gathered up his son in his arms, carrying him across his chest rather than over his shoulder like he would have anyone else.

Blaze was already climbing into the gunner's nest by the time Alex and Sam emerged from the command dome. "Come on, come on, let's get this show on the road!" the Illuminati boy shouted, gesticulating wildly to the Spartans, urging them to move faster.

Alex was reaching out to the tank to steady himself and hop aboard when he heard it; a faint noise that sounded like a _whump_. Instinctively, Alex threw himself back away from the tank, as the sound reminded him all too well of the sound fuel rod cannons had made during the Great War. When you heard that sound, you had maybe as much as a full second, at best, to be someplace else before you got vaporized by the green blast.

The blast came from further on down the bridge, taking more time to reach the tank, giving its occupants a slightly longer amount of time to react.

Blaze had scrambled out of the gunner's nest and was in the process of leaping off of the tank when a bolt of roiling white energy struck the scorpion head-on, melting most of the frontal armor. Fire and molten debris were sprayed all over the rest of the tank, which now sagged on its two remaining treads, now a useless piece of scrap metal.

Blaze was briefly silhouetted in the ensuing flash before the force of the explosion hurled him away.

The driver's hatch popped open and Jess clawed her way out. She was screaming, and Alex could see why. One of her arms and part of her torso was on fire, the flames having burnt their way through the clothes and starting to eat away at the flesh beneath.

"_Jess!_" it was Robin who had shouted, struggling in Alex's arms to help his friend, but Alex did not let go. Instead, it was Sam who rushed to Jess's rescue. The red-haired Spartan tackled the Illuminati girl, grabbing a can of bio-foam and spraying it over her arm, chest, and stomach. Though bio-foam was without a doubt a medical tool, in rare cases it could act as a fire-suppressant. The foam polymer smothered the flames and Jess's screaming abated. She did not feel much at that moment, but in a few hours or days' time she would really start to feel the burns.

Jess took a few shaky breaths and crawled over to a nearby tree, leaning back against the trunk, cradling her arm. "I'll be…" she murmured, but a glazed look came over her eyes and she seemed disoriented for a moment. She frowned, as if she was trying to remember something that was just beyond the reach of her memory, and then shook her head, bringing herself back to full awareness. "I'll be fine…for now… Help Blaze…"

"Already on it," Alex had hurried over to where Blaze had landed. The Illuminati boy was lying facedown on the ground, unconscious. Alex gently laid Robin down next to him and rolled the Illuminati boy over, giving him a quick once-over. "He's fine, just a few lacerations and bruises…maybe a concussion; I think he may have hit his head when he landed."

"That was your warning shot!" a voice hollered from the bridge leading from the islet to the rest of the inner sanctum.

Alex looked up and caught sight of a hazy figure standing alone in the center of the bridge. It was a man, that much was obvious, but he was wearing some sort of armor. It was not actual armor, per se, but it seemed to act like armor. It looked like he was clad in light, a full body suit of shimmering, milky light. The man held out his arm, which began to glow bright white as it prepared to fire another energy bolt.

"If you do not return the boy to the command domicile, I will be forced to end your lives _now_, rather than in the very near future," the man warned.

Alex squinted at the man, getting a glimpse of his face. It was pale and thin, with a full head of graying black hair, and cold, emotionless eyes. The blue-eyed Spartan nearly did a double-take; he _recognized_ this man. He thought back, _way_ back to August, right after Robin's kidnapping. He had gone to Arch Peruski's home, where the old veteran had kept a security recording of the men who had carried out the kidnapping.

Alex, Sam, and Peruski had seen two men in the recording. One of them had been O'Riley, and the other had been the man on the bridge, who had been O'Riley's superior. The puppeteer who had been pulling the proverbial strings. Apparently he had also been the turncoat leader of the Illuminati, and the one responsible for Robin's capture in Portus Illuminatus.

"_You!_" Alex began to walk towards the bridge.

The Director smiled, baring his teeth in a savage grin. "Ah, good…I was hoping you would know who I was. Saves me the trouble of going through an elaborate monologue to introduce myself."

Alex whipped out his sniper rifle, took aim at the Director's head, and fired. The round hit the Director right in the forehead…but the semi-transparent light which covered his body shimmered extra-bright briefly, and then returned to normal. The Director was unharmed. "An admirable attempt," the man chuckled.

"What the hell is that you're wearing?" Alex gestured to the shining aura surrounding the Director, "They selling Zeus's armor at the designer stores here?"

"That boy is definitely your son," the Director chuckled again, nodding his head to Robin, who lay on the ground next to Blaze, staring at the Director with nothing short of pure, fiery hatred. "He has your wit."

"Didn't stop you from putting him in that…that _thing_," Alex said, his voice dripping with disgust.

"Well, no," the Director admitted. "No, I needed him in that chair, despite everything. It couldn't have been anyone else. I have you and your wife's augmentations to thank for that. Ah, where _are_ my manners; _you_ must be Samantha-G113," the Director nodded to Sam, as if he were noticing her for the first time, "Pleasure to meet you in person."

Sam's reply was short, sweet, and simple. "Shove it, fuckstick."

Alex fired his sniper rifle again, but the second shot met with the same result as the first; absorbed by the shimmering armor. The blue-eyed Spartan dropped his sniper rifle, now knowing that he would not need it and that it would only slow him down.

The blue-eyed Spartan cracked his knuckles as he headed down the bridge, sprinting towards the Director. The Director fired the energy which had accumulated along his arm, sending another bolt of white energy sizzling towards Alex.

The blue-eyed Spartan flexed his calves and leaped straight up into the air, hurtling right over the energy bolt. He dodged a second shot in a similar manner. By then, he had reached the Director. He struck, aiming a fist towards the front of the Director's throat, but found that the Director was no longer there.

Somehow, the older man had twisted away with superhuman speed, avoiding the blow. Grunting in surprise, Alex recovered and dealt another blow towards the Director, but again the older man twisted away. "What the-"

The Director suddenly appeared in front of the blue-eyed Spartan, stepping in close and locking their arms. "This is Precursor battle armor," the Director informed Alex in a musing tone, "And it's not just for show." The older man struck at Alex, who ducked and rolled away at the last second, just barely avoiding the hit.

Alex lashed out with his feet; sweeping his left foot under the Director's legs, tripping him up and making him stumble. The blue-eyed Spartan then hit the Director full-on in the chest, dealing a blow that would normally have shattered a ribcage as if it were made of twigs, but the shimmering aura about the older man flared and Alex's blow skated right off.

By then, a good amount of energy had collected around the Director's arm, and he pointed it right at Alex's face, firing. Alex rolled away, but was hurled at least twenty yards through the air for his troubles. He landed in a heap, his shields drained, his armor banged up, and a good amount of his body turning into bruises. Not uncommon for a Spartan, but annoying nonetheless.

Alex noticed something about the Director's aura—it had flickered right as he fired, vanished for at least a second before reappearing. Alex realized that firing the energy must have directly drained the Precursor armor.

The blue-eyed Spartan could not think on the discovery for too long, however. The Director sent a fist hurtling towards Alex's face, but the Spartan sidestepped the punch, bringing his own armored gauntlet around and cracking the Director over the back of his head.

With a frustrated snarl, the Director whipped around on his heel, coming in again for another go. "Foolish little toy soldier, always fighting, never knowing when to give up!"

The Director brought his forearm slicing towards Alex's throat, the energy around his arm turning and flashing a bright white as he went. Alex brought his right arm up to defend himself, meeting the blow. A lance of white-hot pain shot up through his arm, but he ignored it, stuffing it back in a dusty corner of his mind where it would not trouble him.

Alex retaliated with a strike of his own, aiming right for the Director's jaw. The Director did not move, but the blow still curiously missed, even though it should have landed perfectly. Alex frowned and tried again, but met with the same result. It wasn't until another wave of agony shot up his arm that he looked down.

The Spartan gasped at what he saw. His arm ended in a bleeding stump just below his elbow. The arm itself lay on the ground, still twitching. Alex began to jitter and twitch as the adrenaline poured through his body, counteracting the pain of his severed limb. He fell to his knees, cradling the stump.

"Always fighting, never knowing to give up," the Director repeated himself, planting a foot on Alex's chest and giving the Spartan a light shove, pushing him down onto his back. "Never knowing when you were _beaten_."

The older man raised his arm, which was brimming with energy once more, but just as he started to discharge it, a hail of weaponsfire came out of nowhere, pushing him off-balance. Alex craned his neck to see where the shots were coming from and saw Sam striding down the bridge, carrying the heavy mounted MG. She must have wrenched it from the remains of the scorpion while Alex was keeping the Director busy.

The Director turned to face this new threat, firing off the energy in Sam's direction instead of finishing Alex off where he lay. As he did this, Alex reached down to his leg, drawing his magnum sidearm and flicking off the safety, patiently waiting for his next opportunity.

Sam dropped the MG and wielded the blade she had taken off of a Sentian corpse, spinning it around herself in an elaborate twirl before lashing out, swinging it towards the Director's neck. The Director brought his arms up in defense, his aura flashing the same way it did before it took off Alex's arm. The blade was cleaved into three pieces, clattering to the floor, useless.

Sam gave a slight shrug and moved in close, trading blows with the Director several times faster than Alex had been able to. Though Alex was still a proficient fighter in his own right; he was at home behind the scope of a rifle. Close combat had always been Sam and Tyrone's department. Sam was simply too fast for any of the foes she had fought over the years.

Now, whatever enhancements the Precursor armor gave to the Director's reflexes, the older man was able to hold his own against Sam, though he was not toying with her as he had been with Alex—he was really fighting for his life this time.

Sam had seen what had happened to her husband when he made contact with the energy in its purest form and was careful to avoid contact with the Director when he lashed out with his arms. She laid into the older man, striking him wherever his guard was weakest. When he raised his arms to defend his chest and face, she his stomach and legs, and when he lowered his arms to defend those areas, she circled around and hit his back and calves. She was like a shadow, like a lightning bolt; flitting from one place to the next, being almost everywhere at once.

The fight was pretty evenly matched and it seemed to drag on endlessly. Alex checked his mission clock and calculated how much time was left before the HAVOK detonated. _Thirteen minutes_… the Spartan said in his mind. There was no way they were going to get off the Construct now.

Alex shrugged. Even if they were doomed to die here, he would see that they sent the Director straight to Hades before they themselves went.

Suddenly, the Director scored a hit on Sam, striking her in the side with his arm energy, draining her shields and burning through her MJOLNIR. The red-haired Spartan cried out at the sudden pain, falling onto a knee for a moment. The Director fired the energy around his arm in her direction, but she was still able to dodge effortlessly, despite her wounds.

The Director cried out in pain suddenly as he felt fire tear through his lower back. He looked behind himself and saw a bullet wound with blood already beginning to seep out. It was not a bad hit and would not result in death, but it was certainly a very painful nuisance.

Alex let his magnum drop. The explosion of the release of the energy around the Director's arm had jostled his aim. The bullet had still struck the Director in that brief second while his shields were down, but the hit had not been fatal.

Alex gathered his strength and shakily climbed to his feet, standing up to his full height of slightly over six feet.

"That…" the Director began to say, but he paused for a moment, leaning over and spitting out blood onto the bridge. He turned his attention back to Alex, raising his arm again as the energy began to collect. "That was very, _very_ naughty. You were amusing to keep around at first, I'll admit, but now you have become an annoyance. Goodbye, Alexander-G004."

Alex tensed, waiting for the energy to fire. He did not even bother to try to retrieve his magnum—there would be no way for him to dive away and fire at the same time. He would simply have to find another chance.

The Director cracked the blue-eyed Spartan one last grin and fired the energy around his arm, relishing in the rush of the power leaving from his armor, channeled into this single force of destruction.

Alex dove to the side as he planned, landing on his left shoulder and rolling back onto his feet. He heard a sharp **_crack_** as he landed, but he ignored the sound. If it had been his shoulder, it wouldn't matter for very long. He raised his magnum as he spun back around, ready to squeeze of a shot if he still had the chance.

The Director's shields were back up, but Alex didn't even need the chance. The last expression the Director had been wearing—one of calm, absolute certainty—had frozen on his face. He simply stood in place for a few seconds, neither speaking nor moving. A drop of blood seeped out the corner of his mouth, falling down his chin. Then he fell forward, falling flat on his face. As he hit the ground, Alex was able to see the still-smoking bullet hole in the back of the man's head, put there the moment his shields had temporarily drained from the energy bolt's discharge. In that moment, Alex knew that the crack he had heard a second ago had not been his shoulder.

"Looks like being a sniper runs in the family," Sam remarked, a faint grin tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Alex turned back around and looked back to the islet. Robin had crawled his way over to the edge of the bridge. In the twelve-year-old's hands, still aimed at the man he had just killed, was Alex's sniper rifle. Robin had only fired once, but his aim had been true, going straight into the back of the Director's head.

"That…felt good…" Robin murmured.

Normally Alex would have disagreed, would have told his son that taking a life should _never_ feel good, but he made an exception for this. As he looked at the Director's bleeding corpse, he could not help but feel a childlike happiness. The man who had turned his life irrevocably upside-down was now lying on the ground, bleeding out of a hole in his head, put there by the very same boy whom he had tortured for the past four months. Life didn't get much better than that.

Alex found himself feeling very light-headed after a few more moments. He began to sway where he stood, stumbling over to the side of the bridge and steadying himself by putting a hand on the railing. His vision began to darken and the world started to wobble. Sam appeared at his side, placing a concerned hand on her husband's shoulder.

"You're losing too much blood," she observed, glancing at the stump where his right forearm had once been. She grabbed the other can of biofoam from the medical kit from the scorpion, gingerly inserting the nozzle into Alex's arm and releasing the catch, spraying the healing polymer agent into the bleeding stump, effectively sealing the wound.

"That'll do me," Alex murmured, shaking his head to clear it, taking a few unsure steps, assisted by his wife, before he began to walk proper. The two Spartans returned to the islet.

Blaze had regained consciousness and was picking himself up off of the ground, muttering to himself under his breath and holding a hand to his forehead. "Jesus, that hurt-" he started to say before he caught sight of Alex's missing arm. His eyes widened in shock and his mouth hung slightly open. "Holy shit, what happened to you?!"

"If we live through this ordeal, I'll give you the full story," Alex replied. He grabbed his sniper rifle with his remaining hand and clipped it back onto his weapons strip. He bent down to pick up Robin with his left arm, heaving him up onto his shoulder and carrying him like a sack of potatoes.

Robin held on tight. "Please…I don't want to die here, not like this," the twelve-year-old whispered in his father's ear.

"Well, that makes at least two of us," Alex replied, gritting his teeth against the pain which was beginning to gather in the stump of his arm.

Sam had helped Jess to her feet and was supporting her. Eventually, Sam simply gave up and slung Jess over her shoulder as well, careful to avoid agitating the burns she had sustained from the blast which had destroyed the scorpion.

Together, the five companions set off across the bridge at a reasonable sprint—Sam and Alex had to slow down for Blaze, who could not run as fast as an augmented Spartan.

"Common, let's get the hell out of this temple!" Alex shouted, urging them on as they reached the other side of the bridge, sprinting now towards the doors which led into the rest of the Precursor temple.

"How much time until the HAVOK blows this place into the next millennium?!" Blaze asked again.

Alex glanced at his mission clock and shrugged. "Not enough…but we're still going to try. I'm not going to get atomized here if I can help it…I didn't survive Mombasa, Kiev, and the Ark to get taken down by a goddamn _nuke_ of all things…"


	68. Chapter 67: The Survivors

Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Survivors

**0015 hours, November 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Precursor Construct, in orbit over Sigma Octanus IV**

Tyrone-G083 watched the scorpion fade away into the distance without blinking. His jaw worked around and he clenched his fists, opening and closing them repeatedly. He wanted to shout, to scream, to vent his anger and frustration to the heavens, but the words did not come. The rage inside of him was not translatable into a spoken language. Gradually, however, the pure fury that had been tearing through him abated a little. For better or for worse, Sam and Alex had their own destiny to fulfill on this Construct, and the mission objective was not a part of it.

"Where the hell are they going?!" Randall exclaimed, gesticulating madly towards the scorpion as it vanished.

Tyrone did not reply. He sat back down behind the tree trunk and flicked the safety off of his shotgun, waiting for the Tirque warriors to charge at the Spartans' defensive position.

The Elites were busy tearing through the Tirque armor further on up the closest hill. The alien light tanks had posed a formidable threat to the scorpion tank with their numbers, but they had not been expecting to get hit from the rear by a second hostile force. The Elites had brought a wraith tank and a shadow heavy transport, escorted by a trio of ghosts. The ghosts rushed the light tanks from behind, ripping through their weak rear armor with their twin plasma turrets.

As the tanks turned about to face this new threat, now ignoring the four Spartans who were hunkered down behind the fallen tree, the wraith opened fire, taking down light tanks which each hit from its deadly plasma mortar.

Tyrone could not help but cringe as he listened to the carnage. During the Great War, the _shoop_ of a wraith tank's plasma mortar firing had usually always spelled the death of the soldiers it had targeted. Tyrone had listened to that sound many times, and every time it had scared the hell out of him. He did not let it show—he had _never_ let it show—but it had always set his nerves on edge.

The wraith tank's proper name was the 'type-25 assault gun carriage', but it had been given the nickname 'wraith' by UNSC soldiers. The reason for this had been because ground troops would usually get a single look at a wraith before they were turned into one. The ones who survived past that were the lucky ones, and there had never been very many lucky ones.

Now, hearing that sound again, even if it was directed against an enemy, was enough to make even Tyrone uneasy.

Randall glanced over and noticed Tyrone's discomfort, despite the fact that the dark-skinned Spartan was completely encased in his MJOLNIR armor. "Just glad they're firing at someone else," the other Spartan agreed, knowing what was going through Tyrone's mind even though the other Spartan had not said anything.

Tyrone's only response was a grunt, but grunts from Tyrone were usually worth a thousand words.

"We have any rockets left?" Moira asked.

"Never had any to begin with…we had the tank," James replied matter-of-factly.

Tyrone took one last glance at the HAVOK warhead, which was ticking its way towards detonation in the crater that had been created by a laserburst from the Tirque heavy tank. He then peeked up over the top of the tree trunk, watching as the Tirque light tanks broke off from their assault, wheeling around to take on the Sangheili. "Maybe we should lend our split-chin friends a hand," the Spartan suggested.

"Looks like they have it handled pretty well," Randall observed, shielding his face from the explosion of another Tirque light tank. The shadow heavy transport had moved in, all three of its mounted turrets blazing away, trading fire with the red energy weapons of the Hinaptryi warriors. Several of the giant reptilian aliens attempted to rush the Sangheili transport, but they were quickly cut down by the Elites manning the turrets.

"Well then we'll handle it even faster," Tyrone declared, standing up to his full height, gesturing for the others to do the same. "I'll be goddamned if I let the split-chins get a higher body count than us."

"Who can argue with that?" James grunted, standing up as well, vaulting over the tree trunk after Tyrone. The other two Spartans followed close behind, and the quartet of Human supersoldiers sprinted across the grassy field towards the hill which the small Tirque armored force had been advancing down. They covered the distance in a matter of seconds.

For the second time, the Tirque light tanks had turned their backs to an enemy. First they had presented their exposed rear to the Elites, and now to the Spartans. The four supersoldiers disabled two of the enemy tanks before the warriors accompanying them noticed the Spartans' presence.

One particularly muscular Hinaptryi warrior leaped off the top of one of the remaining light tanks, swinging for Tyrone's head. The dark-skinned Spartan ducked at the last second, dropping to his stomach. He aimed his M90 and fired a shell straight into the alien's knee. The Hinaptryi warrior howled in pain, stumbling as it lost use of its left leg.

Tyrone was careful to keep himself out of the alien's grasp. The Hinaptryi possessed strength far greater than his own. When he had been fighting to hold the line on Mount Araquiel back on Sigma Octanus IV, he had very nearly been throttled to death by a Hinaptryi who had managed to get a grip on his neck. The only reason he was still alive now was because Alex had managed to snipe the monster off of him from a nearby cliff.

The downed Hinaptryi took a step towards Tyrone, but the Spartan emptied two more shells into its head. The first shot took off its helm and the second turned its face into hamburger.

Three more Hinaptryi were running up behind their downed comrade, howling for the blood of its murderer. Tyrone tossed a frag grenade in their direction, taking out one and dealing superficial injuries to the other two. Moira came up on the left and fired her BR55 in full automatic, emptying a magazine into one of the aliens' heads, blasting away its helmet, but not harming the alien itself. The Hinaptryi snapped out an arm and cracked Moira over the head, sending her flying. The alien ignored her and returned its attention to Tyrone.

Tyrone fired the last shell in his shotgun into the alien's now-exposed skull, dropping it where it stood. The third alien slammed into him head-on, but Tyrone had braced for the hit, dropping down low so that his center of gravity was close to the ground. Remarkably, the Spartan was only driven back several yards rather than being sent flying down the hillside, a feat only Tyrone could have pulled off.

The alien brought its energy rifle slicing down, but Tyrone met the blow with his shotgun, deflecting the energy rifle so that it thudded into the ground. The alien let go of the rifle and quickly batted Tyrone's shotgun away.

Tyrone stepped in close, trading blows with the alien warrior, wincing as his forearms began to ache from the bombardment they were receiving. He would not last much longer. "I could use some help over here," he said over the SQUADCOM, suppressing his emotions and speaking in a very calm voice.

"I'm a little _busy_ right now!" Randall shouted back. "Nearly lost my balls to one of those aliens' lasers!"

"_Great,_" Tyrone muttered. He managed to score a good kick to the alien's abdomen, but it barely even acknowledged the hit. Just as it leaned forward to deliver a crushing punch to Tyrone's skull it stopped short, a gurgling sound coming up from deep within its throat. There was a slight hissing noise and the acrid smell of burnt flesh, and then Tyrone saw two sharp points of light sticking out the front of the Hinaptryi's neck.

The alien warrior stopped moving and slid forward, crumpling to the ground. The two points of light withdrew as the alien fell off of them, revealing an Elite, clad in bright golden armor, still holding the energy sword which it had used to skewer the Tirque warrior. It let out a triumphant roar to the sky, its four mandibles spreading out wide.

"A good fight, Demon," the zealot nodded respectfully to Tyrone, snapping a quick salute with its sword.

"A good fight," Tyrone agreed. He bent down and retrieved his battered old M90, sliding a new group of shells into the breech, replacing the ones he had already fired off. Eventually, he found himself fighting alongside a pair of Spec Ops Sangheili, who were blasting away at the Hinaptryi with plasma rifles. Nothing came within a five-yard radius of them and lived.

The distinctive _phoom_ of a fuel-rod cannon was heard as another Spec Ops Sangheili, standing on the roof of the shadow heavy transport, fired the heavy weapon, sending shimmering bolts of green energy slamming into the closest Tirque light tank.

Tyrone's mission clock told the Spartan that the fight had lasted roughly ten minutes, until the last Tirque light tank brewed up in a oily could of fire and smoke, taken down by a combination of fuel-rod shots and a coup-de-grâce in the form of a hit from the wraith tank's plasma mortar.

Only the lone Tirque heavy tank remained, suddenly finding itself surrounded on all sides by hostiles. The wraith pumped shot after shot into the heavy tank, tearing through the thick armor of its front. The heavy tank managed to fire off a shot towards the wraith, but its main cannon had been badly skewed by a hit from the wraith's mortar, so the bolt of energy only glanced off of the wraith's right side. The Sangheili tank's symmetric curvature was ruined, but the tank was still able to function as it had before.

One Elite clad in ancient bronze-colored armor had, during the whole ordeal, managed to creep up behind the Tirque heavy tank. Tyrone watched the Elite plunge his energy sword into one of the Hinaptyri in his way, jumping up on top of the corpse and using it to leap on top of the heavy tank.

The wraith fired one last shot, penetrating the top armor of the heavy tank. The tank's main cannon reacquired its aim and was able to fire again, this time sending a bolt of energy lancing straight into the wraith tank. The Sangheili tank crumpled, falling to the ground as its underside grav-thrusters failed. The hatch of the wraith was thrown open and a Spec Ops Elite, badly scarred and burned, clawed its way out, tumbling over the edge of the wraith and onto the ground, thrashing around and howling in agony.

Two more Elites dragged their comrade away from the wraith just as it exploded, sending debris flying in every direction. Several Elites' personal energy shields shimmered and flared as they deflected molten metal fragments that the explosion had sent flying through the air.

The Elite in the ancient armor—Tyrone recognized him as none other than the Arbiter—reached the driver's compartment of the Tirque heavy tank. He raised his carbine and loosed off a shot, taking out the Hinaptryi manning the heavy tank's forward turret. He then leaped on top of the cockpit and drew his energy sword, plunging it down deep into the armor of the tank, bringing it about and searing a small hole into the top. That done, the Arbiter withdrew his energy sword and pulled out a plasma grenade, taking a moment to prime it. As the small orb began to flare bright blue, the Arbiter let out a triumphant roar and plunged it through the hole, into the cockpit, and onto the driver inside.

As the Arbiter leaped off of the heavy tank, there was a large white explosion that engulfed the entire front of the heavy tank, blowing away a sizable portion of armor. Normally a plasma grenade would not have incurred such damage, but it had detonated in a reinforced, extremely closed-in space. The force of its blast had been multiplied by those factors, turning it into something which could bring a behemoth down, which it did.

The heavy tank rumbled to a halt, now a useless piece of scrap metal.

"Hold fire!" the golden-armored zealot shouted, throwing a fist into the air so all of his subordinates could see, "Hold fire and check their remains! If any still linger, then quicken their passing."

Tyrone looked around himself, noticing for the first time that silence had fallen over the hill which had been a fierce close-quarters battle for the past twenty minutes. All of the light tanks had finally been destroyed and the area was littered with the bodies of the outmatched Hinaptryi warriors, slaughtered by the plasma of the Elites and by Spartan lead.

The Sangheili warriors had fanned out, prodding the Hinaptryi corpses with their boots and weapons. If any of them moved when jostled, the Sangheili doing the prodding would press their rifles or carbines to their heads and pull the trigger, putting all of the survivors down.

Tyrone made his way through the carnage, passing by Elites as they began to round up their dead. He spotted the Arbiter, who was in the middle of a conversation with the golden-armored zealot. The Spartan circumvented the burning wreck of a light tank and approached the two high-ranking Elites, greeting them with a nod of his head. "I know I'm not the first who has ever said this, but I'm damn glad that you boys are fighting _with_ me now…" Tyrone said, eyeing the destruction all around them as he spoke.

"Well met, Spartan," the Arbiter bowed his head in a gesture of respect.

Tyrone, not one for formalities, responded by giving the Arbiter a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Likewise. Now that we have time to have a civilized conversation without huge damn lizards trying to ruin our day...we activated the countdown on our HAVOK and have about…" Tyrone checked his mission clock, "…thirty-eight minutes to live before this whole damn place goes _**boom**_. My comrades and I would like to hitch a ride on one of your phantoms."

The zealot hesitated, glancing down to inspect his carbine before meeting Tyrone's gaze. "We have no phantoms," the golden-armored Elite declared.

"My phantom and that of the Fleet Master's encountered Tirque anti-air emplacements," the Arbiter explained, "We have no ships, and therefore no way off of this Construct."

Tyrone was silent for a minute, taking in the Arbiter's words. He took the news calmly and stoically, like any Spartan should. "Looks like we're fucked," he said, his voice flat and emotionless.

"It would seem that way, yes," the zealot agreed.

Just as Tyrone opened his mouth to reply, he suddenly heard Randall calling his name from further on down the hill. "Gentlemen," he snapped the Arbiter and the zealot a quick salute and turned on his heel, heading down the hill through the burning wrecks towards the sound of Randall's voice.

Tyrone caught sight of Randall and James standing with a handful of Spec Ops Elites, all of them standing next to the remains of one of the first light tanks that got destroyed. "Hey, just found out that we don't have a way off this rock," Tyrone hollered over to Randall as he approached his old friend, "Thought you should know. What did you want?"

Randall turned his head, glancing briefly at Tyrone. He then wordlessly stepped aside, revealing what he and the others had been clustered around.

Tyrone looked down at Moira-G298's corpse. A trio of heavy laserbursts had gone right through her chest. The gaping holes in her torso were still smoking. She had probably lived for a minute or two after the hits, slowly bleeding out, most likely unconscious from shock.

"Oh, Jesus…." Tyrone muttered, partially under his breath. All too well, he remembered that heart-wrenching feeling of losing a brother or sister in combat. The last time he had felt it was at the end of the Great War, and then on Mount Araquiel when Chase had gotten killed by a blast from a Tirque light tank. Now it was all coming back.

"We'll have to incinerate her," James reminded Tyrone, "For the armor."

"Yeah…" Tyrone sighed, giving his companion an agreeing nod, "Yeah, you're right. Randall, do it."

Randall crouched down and fumbled with Moira's fusion pack, prying it open and activating the failsafe mechanism. "Get back, get back!" the Spartan cried, throwing himself away from Moira's corpse. The Elites who had gathered did likewise.

Moira's armor exploded in a flash of bright white light, atomizing itself and the body of its wearer. Even though the HAVOK's detonation would have atomized her anyway, it paid to be certain. MJOLNIR armor was not a technology to be simply left out in the open, no matter what the circumstances were.

Tyrone gazed down at the space where Moira had lain for another minute, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn't until he heard someone calling his name again that he looked up and returned to reality.

"Tyrone! Tyrone!" it was James, jogging down to him from further on up the hill, "The Elites—the long-range sensors in their shadow transport are picking up faint IFF transmissions from another part of the Construct! It's not some random alien communiqué either; it's _our_ music we're listening to!"

Tyrone glanced back at the place where Moira had died, and then turned his back on it, heading up the hill after James, Randall hot on his heels. "What do you mean 'our music'? You saying Command decided to send in reinforcements? That makes no sense at all—the whole purpose of having four smaller strike teams was to minimize potential-"

"I have no idea," James held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, "That's why I wanted you to hear it."

James led Tyrone to the large Sangheili heavy transport, where the Elite in the driver's compartment saw them and beckoned them to come over. The zealot was already standing with the driver, listening to whatever was coming in over the air.

Tyrone ducked into the cockpit and gave the driver a nod. The Spec Ops Sangheili fiddled with the controls of the vehicle's sensors and began to play the chatter which he had been picking up. Tyrone tilted his head and listened to it. He recognized it almost instantly, despite the heavy static, interference, and white noise. "_Him?_ How the hell…? He _crashed_; we all saw it happen!"

The voice trying to break through the interference was none other than former Deputy Director Liam O'Riley's.

"Oh…yeah, it _does_ sound like…" James grunted, giving a shrug, "Well, you knew his voice better than I did."

Randall cleared his throat, gaining the floor. "Uh…I believe we have just found our way off this rock. We have…twenty-seven minutes left; if we hurry, we could probably make it."

"Make it where? Did he give you his position?"

"These signals are originating from the mountain range where we just came from," James explained. "For some reason he is not proceeding through the Portal—we're going to have to go to him."

"Then we have no more time to waste," the zealot concluded, stepping back out of the shadow. He began to bark out orders, organizing the Elites into formation.

"What about Sam and Alex?" Tyrone asked, "We are _not_ leaving them here. No one gets left behind." Tyrone had no intention of leaving his two oldest friends to die in this place. Putting it bluntly, they had departed with bad blood between them and him. He had said some things to Alex, things he now regretted uttering. He wanted to make amends, but that would be hard to do if the ones he was going to apologize to were no longer alive.

"How are we going to reach them in time?" Randall asked, "It's not as if they're just next door."

"Well we aren't going to reach them by fucking around here any longer," Tyrone declared. "Randall, James, on me. We'll grab a few Elites and head back to the mountains ourselves. Come on, let's move!"

Just as the Spartans clambered out of the shadow heavy transport, several of the Elites at the top of the hill were shouting and gesticulating madly over the edge. Something was bothering them.

The three Spartans all climbed up to the hill's summit and joined the Elites, seeing for themselves what the commotion was all about. "Oh…shit," James summed the whole thing up in two simple words.

Another whole column of Tirque armor had crested the next hill and was coming towards the strike force's position at full speed. There were easily three times as much armor as the force which the Spartans and Elites had just wiped out. And this time, the allied strike force had no wraith or scorpion to back them up. They had a finite amount of fuel rod shots and a few heavy plasma turrets—that was it.

Then, as if the universe seemed determined to keep the balance, the artificial sun was momentarily blocked out by the sheer density and size of the cloud of Caretaker drones which had soared over the hill behind the Tirque armored force.

"What the hell....?" Randall muttered.

The Elites began to murmur and growl under their breaths as the swarm of drones drew near. Bright spots of light filled the sky as the small machines powered up their weapons.

The Tirque armor and infantry halted in the cleft between the hill they had just descended and the hill which the Spartans and Elites were currently on. They turned and gazed up at the Caretakers, which had also hovered to a stop right above them. Millions of them, waiting. Tyrone could sense the Tirque warriors' unease even from this distance.

A stray shot from a trigger-happy Tirque gunner rang out as one of the light tanks opened fire. A blazing bolt of red crashed into a cluster of five or six Caretakers, vaporizing them all.

Then all Hell broke loose. As if the Caretaker drones had been waiting for the Tirque to fire the first shot—and it turned out that they actually _were_—their retaliation was swift, deadly, and merciless. Every single drone opened fire, sending an almost majestic pattern of blinding white energy beams lancing into the ground, tearing through Tirque armor like they were made of papyrus.

"By the Gods…" one of the Spec Ops Elites whispered. "They're being torn apart…"

"Okay, how about we move _away_ from the psychotic robots!" Tyrone bellowed, heading back down the hill, turning his back on the slaughter that the Caretakers were inflicting upon the Tirque.

The Elites murmured in agreement and hurried back down the hill. The whole force retreated down the hill and back across the grassy field separating the hill from the forest, taking up a new position around the HAVOK nuke, which was still in its crater, ticking its way down towards detonation.

Tyrone made his way through the throng to the zealot and the Arbiter, who were conversing with each other and coordinating their subordinates. "I'm going after our ship," the dark-skinned Spartan said quickly, "And I'd welcome some company."

The Arbiter was silent for a moment, but then nodded, turning to the zealot. "Fleet Master 'Ovarumee, go with them. Please remember to return for us, will you?"

"It's a deal," Tyrone nodded, "Pardon me for not pinkie-swearing—we're short enough on time as it is."

Five minutes later, Tyrone found himself sprinting through the depths of the forest which he had fought so hard to penetrate less than an hour before. The golden-armored zealot—Tyrone had heard the Arbiter call him 'Ovarumee, which must have been his name—pounded through the foliage right next to him. The Elite was every bit as agile, fast, and lithe as his Spartan counterparts were, maybe even more so. Tyrone had seen the zealot fight the Hinaptryi warriors, and he did not want to place bets on who would win in a fight between him and the Sangheili Fleet Master.

The sprint through the forest took another few minutes before the Spartans and their Elite companion stumbled back upon the portal from which they had emerged earlier. The pillar of soft blue energy beckoned to the four warriors, inviting them to step into it.

Tyrone did not hesitate. He strode forward, plunging straight through the energy. He felt a freezing cold for a second, then a prickling sensation all over his skin, all in the space of a fraction of a second. He blinked his eyes and, when they opened, found himself back on the summit of the last peak in the mountain range biosphere.

The mountain range biosphere had been the one where Tyrone's strike team, codenamed 'Death', had made their incursion, advancing through the mountains and valleys to this portal and into the central hub. It had also been here where O'Riley had been shot down.

Immediately, O'Riley's voice burst through over the COM channels, filling Tyrone's helmet with his transmissions. "Any UNSC or Sangheili forces out there, this is Liam O'Riley; _do you read me_, over?"

"O'Riley?!" Tyrone shouted back in reply, "O'Riley, you slippery son of a bitch, how the hell did you survive that missile?!"

"A good flyer never gives away all of his secrets," O'Riley replied cryptically, "And it is good to hear from a friendly voice…hold your position, I am proceeding to the portal."

"Wait, your pelican is in the air _now?_ Why didn't you just come to our position in the central hub?" Randall interrupted.

"Because of those damned drone robot things in the sky," O'Riley responded, "I encountered a whole swarm of them when I moved into the central hub and they drove me back here. I couldn't fight them off; the nose-mounted cannons only cover my front—the drones would have skewered me from behind. Now that I have you, one of you can man the turret I mounted in the back of the troop bay and cover my six. I'm going to need that more than you know."

As O'Riley spoke, Tyrone began to hear the faint whine of a pelican engine. The dropship itself came into view a minute later, banking around the curve of the next mountain over, coming down into a gentle glide towards the portal where the three Spartans and the zealot stood waiting.

After the dropship landed, O'Riley himself clambered out of the cockpit and hopped down to the ground, greeting the new arrivals in person. "I don't believe we've met," the former Insurrectionist said to the zealot.

"Yes we have," 'Ovarumee corrected him, "You were at the Conclave on the _Resplendent Rapture_. So was I."

"Ah, one of the Fleet Masters," O'Riley nodded respectfully, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Not to come across as being rude or impatient, but can we cut the bullshit and get _moving,_ please?" Randall interjected, already climbing into the dropship. "We have less than twenty minutes before thirty megatons of uranium decides to go _**boom**__,_ if anyone cares to remember!"

"The HAVOK? It's been activated?!" O'Riley exclaimed, "Jesus H, why didn't you mention that—we have to go, now!"

"Affirmative," Tyrone agreed, following Randall into the troop bay, "We're going back to the central hub…we have a few pickups we have to make."

* * *

_Twelve minutes_… Tyrone took his gaze away from the mission clock. Looking at it every few seconds would not make time slow down. Now, Fate had become plain and simple—either they would have enough time to get the hell off of this Construct, or they wouldn't.

The pelican had slid through the portal and was currently speeding through the air towards the mesa canyon in the middle of the central hub. O'Riley had briefly touched down at the detonation site to pick up the Elites, who had filled up a good part of the troop bay. James had manned the mounted turret which aimed out of the pelican's rear, though he had not yet had to use it. O'Riley had circumvented the battle going on between the Tirque and the Caretaker drones. None of the small drones had taken notice of them yet.

_Nine minutes_…

The pelican flew over the mesa canyon, giving its occupants a breathtaking aerial view of the labyrinthine ravines and gorges, as well as the rivers and streams that ran through them.

Tyrone pushed his way through the Elites sitting on the floor and stepped into the cockpit. The Arbiter was sitting at the copilot's station and O'Riley at the pilot's seat in the very front. Tyrone leaned over O'Riley's shoulder glancing at the readouts on his console.

"Nine minutes," Tyrone warned the former Insurrectionist.

"Mm-hm," O'Riley murmured, waving a dismissive hand, "Not helping me all that much."

The pelican kept on going until it reached the center of the mesa. In the centre of the whole place was a large basin, a culvert in the rock that was shaped and curved like the inside of a bowl. It was a very large space, easily several kilometers in diameter. In the middle of the 'clearing' was a small, twisting buttress. At the top of that buttress was a structure, a building of sorts.

"What is that?" Tyrone pointed down at the building, directing O'Riley's gaze over to it.

"That…" O'Riley manipulated the controls for the dropship's engines, sending the pelican into a steep drop, descending towards the structure, "…is the command center for this entire Construct. That is where the Precursor psychic adept would interface and communicate with the Custodian. That is also where…hold a second…_there_ you are!" the former Insurrectionist exclaimed suddenly.

"What? What is it?" the Arbiter asked from the copilot's seat.

"I'm picking up friendly IFF transponder signals, coming from the temple entrance," O'Riley proclaimed triumphantly, "That's got to be them."

"Take us down to that location, nice and steady," Tyrone murmured. He turned and ducked out of the cockpit, emerging back into the troop bay. The dark-skinned Spartan stood next to James at the mounted turret at the very edge of the troop bay, watching the ground get closer and closer as O'Riley brought the pelican down. Finally, the temple came into view.

O'Riley fired up the pelican's retro thrusters, sending it hovering backwards towards the entrance to the temple.

The entrance looked as if it had once been a beautiful doorway, but that was no longer true. In its stead was a gaping, still-smoking hole. Tyrone recognized that as the handiwork of a high-explosive tungsten ferrite shell, which could only have come from a UNSC scorpion tank—the Insurrectionist forces, who had similar tanks, would not have fired on the temple. Sam and Alex had definitely been through here.

Then Tyrone caught sight of them. Sam, Alex, the two Illuminati youths…and a fair-haired, blue-eyed twelve-year-old boy who was on Alex's back. Tyrone's heart skipped a beat as he looked at Robin Ambrose. He had not seen Sam and Alex's son for a while, but seeing him now, after all he had gone through on Nemesis III, after all Sam and Alex had gone through since August—everything they had all gone through had been for Robin, and for Robin alone. He was the sole reason why they were on this Construct, the only reason why they had been able to endure and fight as long as they had. Seeing him in the flesh, here, now…it was a huge moment.

The figures on the ground waved and shouted at the pelican, trying to catch its attention, not knowing that they had already been spotted.

Sam was also bearing the Illuminati girl—Jess—on her back. Jess had burns all over her front torso and arms, though they had been temporarily suppressed with biofoam. As serious as the burn wounds looked, that was not what caught Tyrone's attention. He looked at Alex and immediately saw that something was wrong. His arm…his right arm stopped just below the elbow. Something had happened in that temple, and it must have been pretty bad. Again, Tyrone felt a small pang of regret for not being there for his friends when they had needed him.

The pelican reached the ground, prompting Sam and Alex to hurry over to the troop bay's open rear hatch. Alex made it first. The blue-eyed Spartan reached out to grab onto the mounted turret in order to pull himself up, but he was reaching with his right arm. He probably kept on forgetting that it was no longer there.

Tyrone extended a hand to his oldest friend, and Alex grasped it with his left hand. "Consider this my apology," Tyrone said to Alex as he hauled him into the pelican, "I really don't want you mad at me."

"Neither of us were thinking straight, Ty," Alex sighed, stepping aside for Sam and Blaze to clamber up into the pelican as well.

"Alright, we're all in! Get us the hell out of here!" Tyrone thundered.

"You got it!" O'Riley shouted back. The pelican's engines rumbled and the dropship shot back up into the sky, streaking back the way it came, heading for the forest.

With the pelican underway, there was nothing else that required Tyrone's immediate attention, allowing him to address the matter at hand. "Shit on toast, man, what the hell happened to your arm?!" Tyrone exclaimed, grabbing hold of Alex's shoulder, gesturing to the bloodied stump that was all that was left of his lower right arm.

Alex shucked off Tyrone's grip, giving his oldest friend a dismissive wave with his remaining hand. "It's nothing," the blue-eyed Spartan rasped, "I've had part of my chest blown away during the Great War—this is nothing…"

Tyrone exchanged a sidelong glance with Sam, who offered only a hapless shrug as she set Jess down onto the floor. Tyrone sighed and tactfully decided to change the subject. He could tell that the loss of the arm was a lot more painful than Alex was letting on, but there was nothing to be done. Not here.

"O'Riley wants you to consider this as _his_ apology as well," Tyrone added, grabbing hold of the wall to steady himself. "My personal opinion aside, I think you should cut the guy some slack. Sure, he's responsible for this whole thing happening in the first place, but look at all he's done to atone for it. He's changed, and you both know it."

Alex was silent for the next few moments. "When we get out of here alive…I'll consider it." The blue-eyed Spartan crouched down and laid Robin out onto the floor.

The twelve-year-old was able to pull himself over to a wall and prop himself up into a sitting-up position. "It's coming back…" the boy murmured, clenching his hand into a fist, and then releasing it, stretching his fingers dexterously. "It's still hard to move, but it's coming back..."

Tyrone turned his attention back to Robin, a wry grin creeping over his face. "Well, well, well… If it isn't the lil' Runt in the flesh. You've caused us quite a bit of trouble, you know that?"

Robin looked back at the Spartan who had spoken to him. He could not see his face through the reflective golden faceplate in his helmet, but his voice _did_ sound startlingly familiar… "Uncle Tyrone?"

The Spartan depolarized his faceplate, allowing Robin to see his face underneath. He grinned and crouched down, ruffling the twelve-year-old's hair. "Good to see you again, Ace," Tyrone chuckled. He then got a good glimpse into Robin's eyes and stopped short. There was something in the twelve-year-old's eyes, something deep down, something that the Spartan recognized all too well. "You've killed people, haven't you?"

Robin nodded wordlessly.

Tyrone let out an inward sigh. The twelve-year-old was telling the truth, that much was certain. The dark-skinned Spartan recalled his earliest missions against the Covenant before the final battle on Earth, how he had felt as a fourteen-year-old boy making his first kills. It had been a sobering experience, but it also had not been very traumatizing because his kills had been nameless, faceless aliens who were hell-bent on his species' destruction. Robin would have had to have killed fellow Humans.

Tyrone opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by an explosion. The pelican rocked, jerking everyone inside the troop bay.

"What the hell was that?!" James exclaimed, sliding his thumbs onto the triggers of the turret, getting ready to fire.

As if on cue, a whole swarm of Caretaker drones emerged from the clouds, all of them in hot pursuit of the fleeing dropship.

"It's the Custodian…" Robin murmured, staring out at the drones, "He can't disable the nuke, so he's trying to kill us or keep us here before it goes off…he was kind of pissed off when he learned we were going to blow this place up."

"That hit got us near the starboard thrusters!" O'Riley called out from the cockpit, "We've taken superficial damage, but I wouldn't wager on our lives if we take more punishment in that area!"

Dozens of beams of white energy snapped out from the swarm of Caretaker drones, painting the hull of the pelican, tearing through armor wherever they hit.

James opened fire with the turret, ripping into the swarm of Caretakers. Though the drones certainly had powerful weapons, they did not seem to have any shields. Tyrone noticed that they had much stronger armor than the Forerunner Sentinels, but no energy shields. This made them harder to take out from the ground, but much easier to destroy with a heavy weapon, such as the turret that James was firing.

Several Spec Ops Elites had crowded around James and were taking potshots at the drones with their carbines and plasma rifles, taking out the ones that tried to swerve around James' arc of fire.

Tyrone glanced at his mission clock, his stomach doing a flip-flop as he saw the time. "O'Riley! We're passing four minutes!"

"I'm doing the best I can!" O'Riley shouted back, "Hang onto something, we're going into a portal!"

Tyrone just had enough time to grab onto the wall before the whole world flashed white for a moment, whiting out everything in front of him, even the ship, even his own hands. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the light vanished and the pelican was flying through the mountain range biosphere once more.

"I'm going to head back for the tunnel at the far end of this place!" O'Riley explained, "Get out the way we came in!"

"_Right!_"

As the pillar of energy that was the portal to the central hub began to grow more distant, the swarm of Caretakers emerged through as well, still hot on the pelican's heels. O'Riley brought the pelican into a wide bank, taking it around the breadth of a particularly large mountain. The drones followed, relentless.

James resumed his fire, taking out scores of the little automatons with the heavy turret. Alex was tempted to take out his SMG and join in the firefight, but as he reached for his alternate weapon he was reminded for the umpteenth time that there was nothing below his right elbow. He slumped down against the wall next to his son, letting out a disgruntled sigh, staring down at his severed limb with equal parts disgust and frustration.

"Two minutes!" Tyrone shouted, the slightest bit of trepidation beginning to creep into his voice.

A stray beam of white energy managed to sear right through the air and into the troop bay, going straight through an Elite's head and into the chest of another. The dead Spec Ops Sangheili remained frozen for a moment, then slumped forward, tumbling out of the pelican.

Sam tended to the second wounded Sangheili, pulling a can of biofoam from the pelican's medical compartment. She shook the can up and inserted the nozzle into the still-smoking chest wound, filling the Elite's chest cavity with the healing foam polymer.

The other Elites watched with interest as Sam stabilized their wounded comrade. Sam got the feeling that they had never seen medics in action before, and then she remembered something about Sangheili being opposed to medical treatment in general, believing that it would 'soil' their warrior's blood.

If that were true, then perhaps these Elites here cared about their comrade more than their superstitions. Sam smirked to herself as she dressed the Elite's wound and closed it up as best she could. Maybe the Sangheili were not hopeless after all.

James kept up his fire on the Caretaker drones, despite the deadly fire crisscrossing the air all around him. His luck seemed to be holding up, but then a large drone—actually composed of four or five conjoined machines—swooped in. It acquired James in its sights and opened fire, sending a beam of roiling white energy into the Spartan.

The beam, having five times its normal strength, was much brighter and it crackled with a new intensity that the other weapons lacked. The beam drilled right through James' energy shields and MJOLNIR, searing right through his chest.

"_James!_" the four other Spartans screamed in unison. Tyrone picked James up and dragged him away from the turret.

The super-drone charged up its lasers for a second shot, but one of the Spec Ops Elites, who had been carrying a fuel-rod cannon, hefted the heavy weapon, aimed, and fired, sending a crackling green bolt of energy slamming into the super-drone. The conjoined Caretaker drone was vaporized instantly.

Alex shielded Robin's eyes from the sight of James, who was convulsing on the floor of the pelican. The energy beam had sliced his chest right open, exposing most of his innards. That is, the ones that hadn't been burned away. Even biofoam would not be able to heal a hit like that.

Gradually, James calmed down, settling into a cold state. His arms and legs still twitched and his teeth began to chatter. "I'm…cold…" he whispered.

"Hang in there, buddy," Tyrone murmured. "We'll get you to a naval surgeon—they can-"

"Oh…cut the shit, will you?" James managed to chuckle, "I'm finished, and we both know it…" the dying Spartan was silent for another moment, and when he spoke again he seemed to be talking more to himself than to anyone else. "Matt…Lily…Hiro…Salim… I've always owed a death for what happened…"

Tyrone recognized those names. They were the names of the members of Team Scimitar, the names of the Spartans who James had led during the Great War. Team Scimitar had been involved in the Ural Mountains op after the initial strike on New Mombasa. When Tyrone's team had encountered them in a valley which contained a Forerunner complex and a huge Covenant force, all of Scimitar had been killed, except for James. Their deaths had haunted James until well after the war. Even when he finally managed to move on, he had always had a grim, gray personality. He had never recovered from the loss of his family. Tyrone had a hard enough time getting over the deaths of Emma-G132 and Robin-G227. He could not imagine what it would have been like if he had lost Sam and Alex as well, without dying himself.

"Don't talk like that, man, you don't owe anything," Tyrone pressed, but the dark-skinned Spartan knew that it was pointless.

"I was _supposed_ to die in that valley, damn it!" James snapped, "I was _supposed_ to die there! The leader is _always_ supposed to die for his soldiers…not the other way around…_never_ the other way around…" the Spartan's voice grew quieter at the end of his sentence and finally fell silent.

"James," Tyrone began to say, but Sam caught his gaze and shook her head. She was holding James' wrist.

"He's gone," she said.

Tyrone bared his teeth in a savage snarl and slammed a fist into the floor, putting a sizeable dent into the titanium. He remained frozen in that position for a second, and then straightened up and grabbed hold of the turret James had been manning, opening fire once more, shouting insults and obscenities as he took out drone after drone.

That was when they all heard, or rather _felt_ it; a muffled, distant _**boom**_. The pelican rocked slightly as a weak shockwave, depleted over distance, washed over it.

Tyrone flicked his gaze over to his mission clock and a tendril of ice crept into his heart. "The HAVOK has detonated!"

"Firing all reserves, hang on!" O'Riley bellowed. The former Insurrectionist fired every thruster, every rocket the pelican had, squeezing out every single watt of power the dropship had to offer. The pelican trembled and shuddered as it accelerated past its safety limits, which O'Riley had disabled.

The Elites and the Spartans in the troop bay really started mouthing off after the first few seconds, not enjoying the rollercoaster of a flight one bit. Several more beams of white snapped into the troop bay, but they hit nothing. There was a mechanical hiss and the rear hatch began to close so as to avoid decompression when the pelican reached the vacuum of space. _If_ it reached the vacuum of space.

Alex leaned forward and was able to see a massive wall of flame engulf the distant mountains at the other end of the biosphere, where the portal had once stood. The flames roared forward, consuming everything in their path.

"The HAVOK was only supposed to break this place apart, not completely vaporize it!" Alex exclaimed, "That blast is way too powerful to be from a HAVOK warhead!"

"Who really gives a fuck?!" Randall shouted back, "It'll kill us just as easily as a HAVOK would if we don't get the hell out of here!"

As the wall of flames reached forward to take the pelican, the rear hatch sealed shut, obscuring the views of everyone in the troop bay. The cockpit had also been sealed from the inside, rendering the troop bay pitch-dark. Slowly, the red lights set into the troop bay's ceiling flickered to life, bathing the hold in a hellish red glow.

The pelican began to shake even more and the temperature began to increase. The wall of flames had them now, and it was only a matter of seconds before they would be thrown off course, dashed against the ground of the Construct, or simply atomized by the blast of whatever type of warhead that had been planted in the central hub.

The groaning, rattling noise of the pelican's protesting hull filled everyone's ears, rising to an almost high-pitched screech. The Elites all began to murmur to themselves, uttering what sounded like prayers of some sort.

Robin's mouth was open in an inaudible scream, drowned out over the roar of the nuclear firestorm. Alex held his son close, holding his head to his chest. The blue-eyed Spartan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, held it, and waited to die.

But Death never came. Alex had always been close friends with Death—he had come face to face with him more often than any of his teammates—but Death had never gone the final step, he had never actually touched the blue-eyed Spartan yet. He did not do so now, either, for whatever reason.

All at once, the intense shaking of the pelican stopped. The roaring sounds coming from the firestorm outside ceased, letting an unsettling silence fall over the troop bay, as well as an odd, calm stillness.

Alex released the breath he had been holding and opened his eyes. He blinked twice and looked around, still not quite over the shock of still being alive. Tyrone got up from the corner which he had been thrown into, shaking his head and taking in his surroundings. Randall had actually lost consciousness during the final moments, and he still lay sprawled out on the ground.

Robin blinked as well, looking up from where he lay against his father. Slowly, steadily, the corners of his mouth twitched and tugged as a faint smile crept over them.

The Elites gradually began to stand back up, dusting themselves off and looking around, their multi-colored eyes wide with wonder, their mandibles slack with surprise.

There was a faint _hiss_ as the cockpit door unsealed, showing the Arbiter, Fleet Master 'Ovarumee, and O'Riley; all sitting still as statues in their stations, caught in the same reverie as their passengers. Through the cockpit windows, Alex could see star-sprinkled black. Outer space.

They had made it.

The tension had been mounting ever since the mission to destroy the Construct had started. It had pretty much been a suicide mission, and the soldiers partaking in it had known that from the beginning. Now, as the realization that they had actually _survived_ slowly sank in, that tension simply shattered into a million fragments.

Tyrone threw his hands into the air and let out a raw-throated yell, grabbing Sam and pulling her into a massive bear-hug which would have cracked the ribs of normal men.

The rest of the hold devolved into a similar manner, Spartans and Elites alike embracing, cheering, and weeping with relief. Never before had the two races broken down so many barriers between themselves before.

Alex joined in the fray, exchanging friendly punches with Tyrone and several of the younger Spec Ops Elites, Sangheili whose minds were more open and adventurous than those of their elders, Sangheili who had known Humanity as an ally longer than as an enemy.

In the middle of the chaotic celebration, Alex, Sam, and Robin all managed to meet in the center of the hold. All three of them knelt down and embraced each other tightly, something they had not had the time to do on the Construct. Father, mother, and son all looked at one another and, in a single brief moment, all of the unsaid things, all of the pent-up emotions and feelings were passed between them all.

The Ambroses were together again, and not even God Himself would be able to tear them apart again.

"We really _are _the Survivors of Gamma Company," Tyrone chuckled.

Sam was the first to smile. "When we get back home, we're going to Ignacio's."


	69. Chapter 68: All Quiet

Chapter Sixty-Eight: All Quiet

**0113 hours, November 30, 2564 (Military Calendar) \  
Sigma Octanus IV, Sigma Octanus System**

**Mount Araquiel, Black Hills**

Major James Stackhouse immediately felt the change. The constant, perpetual rumbling deep within the earth that had been going on for the past day stopped suddenly. The ground ceased its quaking and everything was still.

Something had been amiss, something had been wrong. Stackhouse had known that there had been something big happening in orbit—the top brass had been in a panic for the past few hours over it—but he had no idea what. That was strictly need-to-know business, and he was no one of the ones who 'needed to know'.

Eventually, as reports of spontaneous volcanic activity and severe earthquakes and tsunamis began rolling in, the marine major knew that the whole planet itself was in danger.

The concept of a whole planet being in danger was really not all that far-fetched to the UNSC veterans, not after witnessing colony after colony burn under the energy projectors of the Covenant fleet during the Great War.

Major Stackhouse had only a few precious seconds to acknowledge the stillness before a screaming artillery shell dragged him kicking and screaming back to reality.

After the arrival of Sangheili reinforcements, Mount Araquiel—which had been wrested away from 3rd Division earlier on in the battle—had been easily retaken. After the original line of defense around the Black Hills had been reestablished, even more UNSC forces landed from orbit. The Second and Third Expeditionary Forces had arrived in-system with the Fourth and Thirteenth Fleets. Instead of bolstering the beleaguered First Expeditionary Force, however, the newly-arrived marines landed in Côte d'Azur, completely surprising the rear echelon troops the Insurrectionists had stationed there.

The city had been retaken by UNSC forces within six hours, driving all of the remaining Insurrectionist forces into the wide expanse between the city and the Black Hills. An intense thermobaric bombardment had also been unleashed on the jungles south of the city, rendering any hostile forces still stationed there neutralized. Even if they had survived, they would no longer be a threat. When the battle ended, revitalization efforts would be undertaken in those jungles and, within a year or two, they would be back to normal.

Though the Insurrectionist ground troops knew that now _they_ were outnumbered and outmaneuvered, they would not give up. For the past day they had fought and fought, never giving up, never surrendering, costing more lives every minute.

Major Rawlins, the battalion commander of 3rd Battalion, had been killed by an intense artillery bombardment of his unit's position the day before. Colonel Halpern, the CO of the 54th Marines, had collaborated with General Armistead and General Hasegawa to secure an impromptu field promotion for Stackhouse, making him a major, and then they had placed him in Rawlin's shoes—at the head of a whole battalion. India Company had been taken over by Hiram Young, Stackhouse's old second in command. Stackhouse had been a fluke, being the only officer left in the battalion who ranked above a lieutenant. Captain Bridges and Captain Finch, who had been in charge of Golf and Hotel Companies respectively, had both been killed in the fighting in the Black Hills. Golf was now being led by one of its platoon lieutenants and Hotel by its 1st Sergeant.

Stackhouse knew that General Armistead had been all for dropping a tactical nuke on the stubborn Insurrectionists' heads, but General McCandlish had overruled the division commander; citing safety risks with having friendly forces too close to any subsequent radiation poisoning.

Now, the fighting had stopped suddenly. A few minutes after the ground stopped quaking, the Insurrectionists had ceased fire. Whatever plan or secret they had had up their sleeves in orbit, it had failed.

"Major Stackhouse, sir!" Lieutenant DeFrancis, Stackhouse's battalion executive officer exclaimed, "The enemy—they've ceased fire! I'm getting reports of surrenders coming in from all over the line!"

"Get on the horn with Colonel Halpern and relay this intel to the top brass," Stackhouse replied, dismissing his XO with a nod. He then turned to Peterson, one of his HQ operators. "Peterson, get into contact with the company commanders; I'm ordering a full ceasefire on our front, unless Division countermands me. Get it done."

Stackhouse spent a few more minutes finalizing plans and relaying orders from his makeshift Battalion HQ—really just a collection of COM and satellite-oriented equipment arrayed on a collection of tables, all of this under a heavy burlap canopy. He then broke cover and made his way through the foliage to the edge of the woods which his battalion was stationed in, walking up to the network of trenches his men had dug.

"Sir!" Lieutenant Young snapped a crisp salute as his old commander and friend approached, "We think we may have sighted a white flag, heading our way. Looks like the Rebs have something to say."

Major Stackhouse joined Young next to one of the trenches, raising his own field glasses to his eyes. Studying the fields in front of the line, he could see the rough shapes of the Insurrectionist fortifications and defenses, as well as the men and women manning them.

Sure enough, the battalion commander was able to spot the unmistakable shape of a large white flag, billowing out in the wind. It was being carried by a soldier in the back of a transport warthog. In the passenger seat of the warthog was an older, gray-haired man dressed in a battered, torn uniform adorned with medals and ribbons—clearly a general of some sort.

"Well I'll be damned…" Stackhouse murmured, "Looks like they actually _are_ coming to negotiate…"

"Better have some huge fucking apologies…" Young muttered. "What are your orders?"

"Put in a call to Corps HQ," Stackhouse ordered, "Get Hasegawa down here. Or Armistead, I really don't care which. They should be on the receiving end of this."

* * *

The past week had been a blur. The debacle with the Precursor Construct had been leaked to the common rank and file. Marines now openly talked about it and discussed it amongst themselves. ONI did not even bother trying to suppress the stories—too many people already knew about what had almost happened to the planet.

General Ian McCandlish personally did not care who knew about the whole ordeal with the Precursor Construct. The ancient vessel had been destroyed before it had wiped Sigma Octanus IV from existence—that was all that mattered.

The Insurrectionist forces had officially surrendered six days ago. The memories of the meeting with the Insurrectionist general were still fresh in McCandlish's mind. He had been called down by Hiroshi Hasegawa to II Corps HQ, where the negotiations were taking place.

Well, 'negotiations' was not exactly an accurate term. The UNSC Force Commander had had to resort to diplomacy at the point of a lance. McCandlish had bluntly told the enemy commander that anything short of complete, total, and immediate unconditional surrender would result in the surviving Insurrectionist forces getting the living shit pounded out of them. The commander of the First Expeditionary Force had been prepared to unleash the full strength of his men against the Insurrectionists. He would have pummeled them with all of General Harrington's artillery, all of his aerial forces, all of the ordinance he had at his disposal. He would have made the Insurrectionists suffer dearly.

Thankfully, it had not come to that. The Insurrectionist commander caved to his UNSC counterpart, finally agreeing to the unconditional surrender. That had been six days ago, and hostile forces were still being disarmed and processed. It was enough to drive a man to drink.

McCandlish had lost a lot of good men on this planet. He had been finishing up in his HQ for the day when an ONI official had met with him—a thin, pale-faced colonel by the name of Angiers. The ONI official had congratulated him on his victory, but had then warned him that the Tirque—the aliens who had joined the Insurrectionists in their fight against the UNSC and the Sangheili—were mobilizing their armies in the wake of their defeat here on Sigma Octanus. The ONI officer had warned McCandlish that the UNSC would soon most likely have a whole new war on its hands.

There were rumors circulating around that HIGHCOM was going to establish a draft, pulling nonessential civilians into the armed forces in order to meet the new threat of these Tirque when they started their attacks. When the Tirque finally do attack, they will not find the broken, shattered, weak UNSC of a decade ago. They would also not find an isolated, lone UNSC either—the Elites had pledged their assistance to their Human allies. Had the Tirque succeeded in destroying Earth, they had every intention of attacking Sanghelios next. That had not sat well with the Elites.

McCandlish now sat in an officer's bar in downtown Côte d'Azur, which was gradually being repopulated. The city had been emptied of civilians prior to the two week-long battle, but now, after a week of no fighting, the populace of the bustling port city was beginning to return.

The quad-star general was drowning his worries in a glass of scotch. He stared at the amber liquid, gazing deep into it as if it held all the answers. He was not too thrilled at the prospect at having to go to war once again, after all he had already gone through during the Great War, and then on Irivet V more recently.

"Something wrong, sir?" the bartender asked inquisitively, noticing the general's despondent persona.

"Yeah," McCandlish grunted, "Life."

* * *

Jess had never liked hospitals. In Portus Illuminatus, even though the hospital there had saved countless lives, she had always felt uneasy as she walked through its halls. Hospitals were places of healing, sure, but they were also places of death. People died there all the time.

Now, Jess was stuck in a hospital and, naturally, she did not enjoy it one bit. However, the staff of the military hospital outside of Saint Claire—the largest city on the Alsace Continent of Sigma Octanus IV—were able to sufficiently heal the burn wounds on her chest, shoulder, and arm. They did not hurt nearly as often as they had used to, and she was able to move around without unleashing a hellstorm of pain from those areas, so she was willing to meet the hospital halfway.

The bandages had come off yesterday and, although Jess was not pleased at all with the sight, the afflicted areas did not look all that bad compared to what they could have been. The doctors of the UNSC really knew their stuff; Jess had to give them that.

Robin was in the same hospital, but he was on a different floor and Jess had not gotten the chance to see him yet. She had learned all about how he had been imprisoned for over two weeks, unable to move, unable to communicate—the mere thought made her shudder. Due to weeks of not being used, Robin's muscles required some measure of physical therapy to bring them back to normal.

Blaze had just been in to see her earlier, and he had left a 'Get Well' card. Both he and Jess were in a state of limbo when it came to their present situation. They were defectors from another part of the Orion Arm, not even citizens of the UNSC. Quite frankly, the UNSC had no idea what to do with them. Neither Illuminati youth knew what was in store for them in the near future, but then again, neither of them wanted to think that far ahead. There was enough to deal with in the present.

The days since the escape from the Construct seemed to have slid by like liquid, and yet at times they also seemed to have been as long as years. Time had little meaning in a hospital ward without any outside windows. Jess's only way of telling something similar to time was the rotation of the nurses and orderlies, the meals she was fed, and the staff which she could observe from the window in her room.

Robin never visited until the eighth day, when Jess had been nodding off to go to sleep after another hard day of lying in bed with absolutely nothing to do. The Illuminati girl had been woken up by the sound of her door being pushed open. She opened her eyes and cocked an eyebrow at the twelve-year-old walking into her room. "Hey."

"Hey," Robin said back. He paused for a moment, fidgeting in place as he gazed at his friend. "I missed you," he finally said.

"I missed you, too," Jess's mind briefly flashed back to the road outside of Portus Illuminatus, seeing Robin collapsing after getting shot by a tranquilizer dart, and then taken by the Director into captivity. She shook her head slightly, banishing those images back to a dark corner of her mind. "Finally decided to take some time out of your life to pay me a visit, eh?" she finally quirked.

"I—um-" Robin's cheeks flushed a bright red as he fumbled with his words. He frowned to himself; he had always had something snippy and sharp to say to his jailers during his time in captivity, but he had never been able to be quick on his feet with Jess.

Jess's mouth curved in a wry grin. Robin had done that a lot during their time together on Nemesis III, and it had been one of the things she had always found cute about the twelve-year-old, how shy and nervous he had always gotten around her. "It's alright, I'm just messing with you," the Illuminati girl chuckled, "I know what you've been through."

Robin took a few tentative steps towards the bedside, hesitating as he got there. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he were trying to say something but could not find the words.

Jess cocked an eyebrow at the twelve-year-old. "You want something or are you gonna stand there gawking all day?"

"I just…I just wanted to…you know…um-"

"If you draw this out any longer, I _might_ just have to backhand you across the-" Jess started to say, but she suddenly found that she could not speak. Robin had closed his eyes, taken another step forward, leaned in, and planted his lips across hers, all of this happening in less than a second. Not bad for a twelve-year-old Spartan, not bad at all.

Jess was actually somewhat surprised for the first millisecond, but she closed her eyes as well and found herself returning the kiss. She felt…weird. Happy, excited, exhilarated…she had never felt these feelings before in the moral and mental rollercoaster that had been her life.

When Robin finally drew back, neither he nor Jess knew how long they had gone, but they honestly couldn't care less.

Jess's smile grew a little wider as she opened her eyes, letting out another quiet chuckle. "I guess you're not completely hopeless after all."

* * *

**0019 hours, April 14, 2565 (Military Calendar) \ (Four Months Later)  
Unknown Location, Slipspace**

**UNSC **_**Point of No Return**_

The UNSC _Point of No Return_ was arguably the most advanced and specialized stealth ship in all of the UNSC Fleet. It was much larger than a prowler, and yet it had the same structure, the same curvature, and all of the same stealth systems, albeit more advanced ones, as a prowler. Its armor was pure black, fitted with stealth ablative coating, texture buffers, ablative baffles, and the most high-tech, state of the art counterelectronic systems which rendered it invisible to any external sensors. When traveling with its reactors under thirty percent, the _Point of No Return_ was as dark as interstellar space.

The _Point of No Return_ was large enough to be classified as a 'Stealth Cruiser'. It had long been the command and control platform of many of ONI's more shady dealings, organizations and projects that would probably never be shown in the public eye.. It had been on this very ship that the Spartan-III project had been discussed and put into effect. Many secrets had passed through the walls of this ship, facts and knowledge that most of the Human race would never know about.

Today, the routine of life on the stealth cruiser had been slightly disrupted, as it was receiving visitors. The _Point of No Return_ was the most secret ship ever built in the UNSC Fleet. Only a handful of personnel had ever been aboard, and less than twenty officers had access to its most sensitive areas.

It was on that stealth cruiser, in the nexus of all of ONI's secrets and deceptions, that three Spartan-IIIs found themselves. They were being escorted through the corridors by a low-ranking ONI officer. It was somewhat symbolic; Spartan-IIIs coming to the place where the Spartan-III project had been created and given life by Colonel James Ackerson, even if they had no way of knowing it.

"Remind me again why we're here?" Alex muttered under his breath.

"It was ONI who brought us here, Alex," Tyrone rolled his eyes, "You think _they_ gave me an explanation?"

"This way, gentlemen," the ONI officer stepped into a lift, gesturing for the three Spartans to follow him inside. Once all three had piled in, the ONI officer murmured a command and the lift began to descend.

"Well, the fight with the Insurrectionists has been over for over four months, what could they possibly want with us now?" Sam wondered aloud, voicing the question on everyone's mind.

"Oh, if there's ever something I learned about ONI over the years, it's that--if you're a valuable enough asset--they'll never run out of uses for you," Tyrone grunted. The dark-skinned Spartan sighed and scratched his chin. A slight goatee had grown out of his chin over the past few months and he had yet to shave it. "How's the arm doing?" he finally asked Alex, having run out of things to say.

"Feels like I never lost it," Alex replied. He raised his right arm and flexed it, clenching his hand into a fist, and then working through a series of exercises in dexterity that he had done with his physical therapist in the past. After he had lost his right arm below the elbow on the Precursor Construct fighting the Director, who had donned some sort of Precursor battle-armor, Alex had been taken into surgery by ONI's finest. They had outfitted him with a bio-mechanical prosthetic arm, equipped with the same strength and augmentations a Spartan would have. The prosthetic had come from a store of replacement limbs designed specifically for Spartans, though they had not been needed very often, as Spartans rarely got wounded enough to lose an entire limb. It had only happened two or three times before in the Great War, but that was it.

After a few months of physical therapy, the new arm felt as natural as the old one had. Though he would never admit it, Alex was very glad and relieved deep down inside. He was a sniper, tried and true. Behind the scope of his rifle, he was God Almighty, but without it he was simply average. With the new arm, he could resume sniping, something that would have been very hard to do with only his left arm and hand.

The prosthetic was extremely advanced, possessing the mechanical equivalent of a nervous system which was able to transmit the electrical messages from the brain, making it function just as any normal limb should. It even had a circulatory system—it was able to pump blood through its length, and it was the blood's nutrients that kept the arm in tip-top shape. It was a symbiotic relationship—Alex needed the arm, but the arm also needed Alex. Both were more than happy to oblige each other.

The lift came to a halt and hissed open. The ONI officer led Sam, Alex, and Tyrone through another two or three corridors before coming to a stop in a section of corridor without any doors or outlying halls. He stepped up to the wall on the right and murmured a command under his breath, and the leaned forward as a nearly-invisible laser snapped out and scanned his retinas.

There was a slight hiss and a section of the wall bisected and slid away, revealing a short hallway leading into another room. The ONI officer gestured for the Spartans to enter and they obeyed. After they stepped through the outer doorway, it sealed shut behind them. They ignored their trepidations and kept on going, proceeding into the room at the other end.

This room was a half-bubble, hemispherical in shape. It had a circular floor and a domed ceiling. The walls and floor were completely white and seamless. As the entrance hissed shut, Alex turned around instinctively, but he could not find the place where the doors had been. There was absolutely no visible seam.

In the center of the room was a black, perfectly round conference table. The whole place made Alex feel uneasy. It reminded him of a giant eye, staring at him relentlessly, obliterating all sense of personal privacy.

A tall, pale man clad entirely in black was sitting at the opposite end of the table waiting for his visitors. "Pleasure to see you all again, as always," the man greeted the Spartans.

"Colonel Angiers?" Tyrone cocked a curious eyebrow, "What has ONI suckered you into doing this time?"

"Well first, it's not 'Colonel' Angiers any longer," Angiers' mouth curved into a faint ghost of a smile, "I received a promotion for my services rendered during the end of last year. My intel on the Insurrectionists and the Tirque proved to be invaluable to the war effort, and this is the Office of Naval Intelligence's way of saying 'thank you'. I have been placed in a high-ranking position in ONI Section III…the head of the Beta-5 subdivision, to be exact. I would like to bid you welcome to Odin's Eye," Angiers gestured to the room all around himself, "the most secure room you'll ever find in the UNSC. These walls are inlaid with ablative insulating layers, as well as the most sophisticated counterelectronic systems. Anything that is said in here _stays_ in here. Nothing gets out. Nothing at all."

"How about we get to the part where you tell us exactly why the hell we were dragged here?" Sam interrupted.

"This war is not over," Angiers began to say, "Quite the opposite, in fact; it is just beginning. The whole ordeal with the Insurrectionists; that was just a prologue. That was the overture. The real show is about to begin."

Angiers stood up and uttered a muffled command to the computer set into the ebony conference table. A holographic image of a Hinaptryi warrior and that of a blue-skinned Sentian shimmered into existence. "The Tirque, the aliens who allied themselves with the Insurrectionists," Angiers began to explain, "They are beginning a full mobilization of their warrior caste. We have…interviewed your son several times to glean whatever intel we could from him on these aliens. Robin Ambrose has had the more contact with the Tirque than any other Human being. From him, we learned that the now-deceased Director of Shade Branch of Magisterial Spec Ops—a man whom we all knew of—knew of the Tirque's true motives, and he voiced them with your son before Robin was interred within the Precursor Construct."

"I think I'm going to go ahead and sit down for this one," Tyrone muttered, taking a seat at the conference table. Alex and Sam joined him.

Angiers snapped his fingers and the holograms vanished. He returned to his seat opposite of the Spartans. The ONI officer leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he regarded the three Spartans. "The only reason the Tirque allied with the Magistarium was so that, together, they could wipe the UNSC out. After that was accomplished, the Tirque would simply have turned on the Magistarium, which would have been weakened by the war. This strategy failed when we won the battle at Sigma Octanus IV, so now it seems the Tirque are simply going to attack us all outright. To match their mobilizations, we have been doing the same. The Marine Corps and the Navy are being built up to levels we haven't seen since the height of the Great War. Peacetime drafts have been instigated—you get the general idea."

"And what does this have to do with us?" Sam asked.

"Do you know what the Beta-5 subdivision is?" Angiers asked. When all he received from the Spartans in reply were blank stares, he went on. "The Beta-5 subdivision is the sub-cell of ONI Section III that operates the Spartan III program."

Alex, Sam, and Tyrone said nothing, waiting for Angiers to continue.

"I have already discussed my plans with the appropriate higher-ups and have secured their approval," Angiers explained, "The only things I still need are you. Take a look at this," the ONI officer snapped his fingers again and another hologram appeared, this one depicting a huge, violet gas planet. "This is the planet previously designated as K7600-G24, now nicknamed 'Poseidon', located in the Alpha Cygnus System."

"Never heard of it," Alex interjected, giving an unknowing shrug.

"That is because it does not exist," Angiers replied, "At least not officially. It exists no more than Onyx did in the Zeta Doradus System. But the planet is not what matters—what matters is its moon," the ONI officer manipulated the controls of the hologram, zooming in on the small green sphere orbiting the violet gas giant. The image zoomed in on just the moon, revealing it in its entirety. It was beautiful, lush world, covered with jungles, grasslands, oceans, and even a desert. It was easily the size of Earth, maybe a little smaller.

"This moon," Angiers gestured to the hologram, "Possesses a breathable atmosphere, as well as a perfectly favorable climate. We call it 'Lethe'. It is the perfect location."

"Location for what?" Tyrone began to lose patience as Angiers continued to beat around the bush, though a small part of his had an inkling of what the ONI officer was talking about.

"The appropriate facilities and AI have already been built and installed respectively and are awaiting your arrival," Angiers informed his charges, banishing the hologram of Lethe with a wave of his hand. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table, looking each of the three Spartans in the eye. "The man who trained you—you knew him as Lieutenant Commander Kurt Ambrose. In reality, he was Kurt-051, a member of the Spartan-II generation. He was pulled from combat to train Alpha Company, then Beta Company, and then you. There are no better trainers for Spartans than _other_ Spartans, wouldn't you agree? You are living proof of that sentiment."

"What are you spooks cooking up on that moon, then?" Alex inquired, his curiosity beginning to drive his mind wild.

"_You_ will be heading up the show on Lethe," Angiers said to Tyrone, "As such, in order to complete this task without any snags, I have already secured you a promotion from HIGHCOM. Congratulations, Commander."

"_Commander?_" Tyrone blurted out reflexively. That was _huge_; no Spartan had ever made it past the rank of Lieutenant Commander before. Commander was the navy equivalent of a lieutenant colonel. Commanders usually served as executive officers for captains and admirals, or commanded smaller vessels. Being promoted from a Petty Officer to a Commander was…well, it was unheard of. Unthinkable. And it had just happened.

"Yes, Commander," Angiers reaffirmed, "With a rank such as that, you will run into absolutely no trouble in the areas of authority and jurisdiction. No one will be able to order you or countermand you with rank. And besides, you have already proven time and time again that you are an excellent leader. This rank will definitely not be wasted on you, that much I can tell. Alex, Sam; I am promoting both of you to full lieutenants—both of you will be assisting Tyrone on Lethe. Together, I think the three of you will make one hell of a team."

The three Spartans still said nothing, but they had all by now pretty much figured out what the ONI officer was driving at.

"The Spartan-III project is not dead. It was never dead, just on…hiatus. A decade-long hiatus. It starts again now," Angiers straightened up, cocking an eyebrow, almost daring the Spartans to meet his challenge. "I want you to train Delta Company."


	70. Epilogue

Epilogue

**0630 hours, April 30, 2565 (Military Calendar) \  
K7600-G24 "Poseidon", Alpha Cygnus System**

**Camp Amakhosi, Lethe**

The pelican was dark and stuffy. The troop bay was filled with the sounds of sniffling, whimpering children. So much had happened to them in the past few days and weeks that it was almost overwhelming, but they would endure. They had to.

Evan was not crying. He had not done so for a while, now. If it was possible to cry all of your tears out until you ran dry, Evan had already done it. He had nothing left to give except for anger. The little blond-haired five-year-old sat near a porthole, watching the deep, star-sprinkled black of space gradually turn into a deep, navy blue as the pelican entered an atmosphere. That navy blue, in turn, began to lighten, becoming closer and closer to the normal sky blue.

Small tongues of flame licked at the portholes as the pelican began to experience the heat and friction of reentry. For a moment, Evan's mind snapped back to his home, located on the coast of one of the outer colonies. He remembered the stars that had fallen out of the sky, and then the monsters that had boiled forth from those stars, burning his home, slaughtering, pillaging-

Evan shook his head, not wanting to think about what had happened to his home. This time, _he_ was in a falling star. This time, his destiny was in his own hands.

The shove came from behind. Evan was hurled forward into the bulkhead, cracking his head against the titanium-A armor.

"Watch it, stupid," the kid who had shoved Evan spat as he made his way back towards his seat. He was a black-haired six-year-old, taller than the rest, and had Latino features, as well as somewhat honed muscles. As far as six-year-old muscle strength could go, the Hispanic kid looked as if he could take Evan on and snap him in half without even breaking a sweat.

Evan did not care. He had been slighted, and the offender had to pay.

The five-year-old launched himself at the older boy who had shoved him, fists raised. The older boy had time only to turn and face his assailant before a small, bony fist crashed into his lower jaw, sending him reeling.

Evan followed up with a sucker-punch to the gut. He stepped forward to strike another hit on the six-year-old's exposed face once more, but was met instead by the six-year-old's foot. The Hispanic kid snapped out with his left foot, catching Evan in the hip. Evan cried out in pain, collapsing to one knee, clutching his injured side.

The two boys panted for a few seconds, and then warily climbed to their feet, staring each other down. The other children in the hold had fallen silent, eyes wide as they watched their compatriots beat each other senseless.

The tension finally broke, and Evan and the Latino boy threw themselves at each other, each quite ready to severely maim the other.

Evan let out a surprised yelp as a pair of strong hands suddenly descended onto his shoulders, yanking him back. The five-year-old struggled and twisted in the grip, but it did not let up. Finally, Evan began swinging at the man restraining him. What right did _he_ have to interfere with him? How dare he try to hold him back, how dare he interrupt-

There was a loud _click_ as the man drew his pistol and cocked it, pressing it up to Evan's head. "That's _enough!_" the man barked. "Future soldiers, my ass…the lot of you can't even be in the same space for an hour without wanting to break something. By God, if it costs me the rest of my non-gray hairs, we _will_ beat that out of you if we have to!" the man shouted at the children, whose eyes widened even further as the DI yelled at them.

The DI holding Evan withdrew his sidearm and leaned down, his mouth right next to Evan's ear, and whispered, "Save it, kid. Save your anger. It'll give you strength, and you'll need that strength soon. Here, it's just a waste."

Evan grudgingly returned to his seat, throwing the Hispanic kid one last dirty look. Evan was surprised when he made eye contact with the older boy—the Hispanic kid actually had an expression of respect on his face. When he saw that Evan was watching him, he quickly wiped it off.

The DI returned to the cockpit, thinking to himself, _I'll have to remember those two_… He had served as one of the head drill instructors for Gamma Company on Onyx nearly twenty years ago. Since then, Gunnery Sergeant Osmond Anderson's hair had gone iron-gray, but he still remained as fit and strong as he had ever been before. Now he would be the Senior DI in Camp Amakhosi.

The rest of the trip to the surface took around five minutes, but those minutes flew by without much distinction from each other. The children all felt the pelican cease its rattling as it hovered to a complete stop. There was a soft hiss as the rear deployment hatch cracked open, allowing a sliver of sunlight to peek through. The sliver grew larger as the ramp dropped down to the ground.

The DI emerged from the cockpit once more. He drew his power baton and activated it. The metal hummed to life, blue energy crackling up its length. The DI zapped the girl nearest to him when the children did not immediately move. That spurred the twenty kids on board the pelican into movement, and they clambered down the rear deployment ramp and onto the earth outside.

Evan took a look around, taking in his surroundings. They were on a parade field of sorts, situated in the center of what appeared to be a large, enclosed compound containing dozens of barracks buildings as well as operations centers, armories, a mess hall, a learning center—this place was almost like a major military base, only more compressed.

Dozens of other pelican dropships had also landed in the parade field, more young children streaming out of their holds. There were at least three or four hundred of them now, all of them packed onto the parade field, herded into a large group by the DIs.

Wet green grass covered the entire ground, except for the gravel and dirt pathways which interconnected each building to the rest. Beyond the compound were light, thin, jungle-like woods. Wildlife could be seen leaping between the trees and foliage. This whole place was an adventure, an unknown frontier, just waiting to be explored.

Evan was so deep in his own dreams that he did not see the girl in front of him as he was walking forward. He walked right into her, smacking his mouth on the back of her head.

"_Ow!_ Watch it, jerk!" the girl snapped, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder, turning around to find out who had hit her.

"Sorry," Evan mumbled, his face flushing red.

"Oh…" the girl's eyes brightened as they recognized who they were looking at, "you're the one who was hitting that other guy," she remarked. She hesitated for a second, and then added, "That was pretty cool."

"Um…thanks," Evan stammered. He had never been any good around girls, and that was starting to show. The girl did not seem bothered, however. Instead, she asked him for his name. "I'm Evan," the five-year-old boy replied. "What about you?"

"Anna. Well, Marianna's my real name, but no one calls me that."

Evan gave a shy smile and opened his mouth, about to say something, when he was interrupted by a sharp whistle; a loud, high-pitched screech that caught everyone's attention, hushing all of the murmuring and side conversations.

A voice boomed out of the camp's PA system and all of the children turned to its source—a tall, muscular, dark-skinned man dressed in casual combat fatigues, speaking with a wireless skin microphone wired to his neck so that his words were instantly broadcasted over the loudspeakers. Flanking him were two similarly-dressed individuals; one of them was a shorter, fair-haired man with piercing electric-blue eyes, the other was a slightly taller woman with shoulder-length red hair and green eyes.

Standing in the background were two more people; there was a smaller, twelve-year-old boy with sandy hair and the same blue eyes as the fair-haired man. He looked utterly and completely bored. The other person was the iron-haired, square-jawed DI who had restrained Evan on the pelican.

"Attention, recruits!" the dark-skinned man said over the PA system, catching the eyes of his audience, "My name is Commander Tyrone Jackson. You have all endured great hardships to be here today. There are four hundred and twenty-three of you here on this parade field. Look at the person to your left, and then to your right. Though you may not think you have anything in common with any of these people, you are wrong. The Tirque have made orphans of you all."

As the dark-skinned man spoke, a hologram appeared in the air in front of him, a startlingly realistic image of a Hinaptryi warrior. A collective wave of dissent rolled through the crowd of children as they caught sight of the monster. It had been creatures identical to that one who had destroyed their homes and slaughtered their families. Seeing them like this unleashed a slough of suppressed memories from all of the children.

"They came into our space and attacked us without provocation, without reason. They came to your worlds. They burned your homes and they butchered your families and your friends," the Commander declared, his voice ringing with emotion, powerful enough to be clearly heard in the back of the crowd without the loudspeakers.

Though he had no way of knowing it, Evan had a feeling that the Commander had been through something similar. He had the sound of someone who had lost people close to his heart. The five-year-old's heart started to pound and the old anger started to surface, stirred by the dark-skinned man's words.

"They deserve to suffer, to _burn_ for what they have done!" the Commander admonished, his voice growing louder as he continued, "You all have been called here for a purpose. You have anger in your hearts; that is good. Use that anger, channel it. Make it your weapon…but do not let it control you. Today, I am offering you the chance to become a Spartan, like me. Today, I am going to give each and every one of you the chance for revenge, the chance to hit these inhuman, genocidal monsters where it hurts them the most!"

A cheer rose from somewhere in the front of the crowd. Evan, his anger raised nearly to the boiling point, gave a raw-throated howl, contributing his voice to the chorus. The children roared for a few seconds before they quieted down, intimidated by the DIs and their humming power batons.

"There are over four-hundred of you assembled on this parade field," the dark-skinned commander informed the children, "and we have room for only three-hundred recruits. Not all of you are going to make it, I'll tell you that right now. Today, I am going to see for myself who out of all of you wants this privilege the most!"

Evan's heart dropped suddenly when he realized that there was a chance that he would be turned away, that he would be denied his revenge. The disappointment was fleeting, however, lasting only half a second. It was quickly replaced by a burning determination. He was going to succeed, even if he had to beat each and every one of the others senseless to pass. Nothing was going to get in his way.

"If you succeed, you will remain here. You will become one of us. You will become a family to each other, and you will respect one another!" the Commander said, his voice dropping to its normal volume, "These individuals are Lieutenants Alexander and Samantha Ambrose," the Commander introduced the two other Spartans standing on both of his sides, "They will be training you all as well, right alongside me. You all will become the very best that we can make you. I'll warn you now; the road ahead is not an easy one. If you have any reservations, if you have the slightest inkling of doubt, step away now."

No one moved. There had probably never been a crowd of four to six-year-olds who had stood so rock-still.

"If you succeed, you will become the greatest warriors Humanity has ever produced. Remember that, but above all else remember your fellow Spartans, and remember yourself. This moment is yours, and if you succeed, no one can take that away from you."

The Commander fell silent, finished his speech. He let the children soak in his words for a minute before he turned his head to the man who was standing several paces behind him, giving him a discreet nod.

The man strode up next to the Commander. Evan gave a start as he recognized the man. It was the iron-haired DI who had stopped him and the other boy from pummeling each other in the pelican.

"I am Gunnery Sergeant Anderson!" the DI barked. Even though his voice did not circulate through the PA system, the kids way in the back could still hear all of his words with perfect clarity.

Evan could tell just by looking at this man that he was going to be their worst nightmare.

"I will be your senior drill instructor! If _this_ is supposed to be Humanity's greatest legacy that I am looking at right here, then it's a miracle we ever made it through the first five years of the Great War!" Anderson shouted. His words upset many of the children, but he did not care. The children would not become Spartans if they were coddled. "I am going to break every single one of you, physically and mentally. If you have what it takes, if you have the spirit and discipline to prevail…then there just might be hope for Humanity yet. Do any of you second-rate, leftover degenerates want to be Spartans?!"

Over four hundred voices shouted, "_YES_!"

Gunnery Sergeant Anderson ran a hand through his cropped hair and gave a mirthless chuckle. "You all want to be Spartans? Then get your asses back on those ships!"

There was silence at first as the children milled about, unsure of what to do.

Evan panicked at first. What did the gray-haired man mean by 'get back on those ships'? Were they going to send him back home after all?

"No one wants to get on the pelicans, eh?" Anderson mused. "Now I'm going to have to put in a call to ONI to send me more recruits because _this_ entire first batch turned out to be nothing but a huge bunch of wash-outs who were incapable of following the most basic orders!"

Evan was one of the first children to actually sprint back onto the pelican he had arrived on. As he ran through the crowd and up the metal ramp, he could hear the senior DI grunting in approval.

"That's more like it!" Anderson nodded, "Maybe I won't have to put in that call…not yet, at least. Do _you_ think you all are nothing but a bunch of hopeless wash-outs? _Well?!_"

"_No, sir!_" the response was.

Though only a few could see it, a faint ghost of a grin wandered over Anderson's face. "Well, then, _prove _it," the senior DI hissed, speaking in a much quieter voice that somehow projected just as far as his bellowing shouts had.

Evan took his seat near one of the portholes, tapping his feet impatiently as the others clambered inside. Anna, the girl he had run into earlier, sat on his left. He exchanged a friendly nod and smile with her, and then looked to his right. He gave another start of surprise as he regarded the Hispanic boy who he had gotten into a fight with.

"My name's Carlos," the older boy extended a hand to Evan, "I'm sorry about shovin' you."

"It's okay…" Evan gave the hand a wary shake. He still did not trust the older boy, but he could see that, for whatever reason, he had gained Carlos's respect. That would probably come in handy in the future.

Last aboard the pelican was Gunnery Sergeant Anderson. He climbed on board, the rear hatch sealing shut behind him. He exchanged a brief glance with the twenty children aboard and merely said, "Get ready to drop," before ducking back into the cockpit.

Evan took in a deep, shaky breath, and then released it, watching the ground fall away as the pelican rose up into the air.

He had a feeling that today was _not_ going to be a fun day.

* * *

_**THE END**_

* * *

_Wow... Did I really just write a seventy chapter story? Did I really? Still hard to believe, even as I look back on it now._

_I've been through thick and thin writing this. Sometimes I would crank out several chapters in a week, sometimes my writer's block would be so bad that it would take me half a month to write ten pages. I didn't intend for Survivors to be THIS long...the plot just kind of developed as I was writing it. I want to thank all of the readers out there, especially those who gave me feedback. General MB and Purple Rookie I think have been with me the longest, and I owe a lot to them--they kept me from going astray on several occasions.  
_

_I'm deliberately leaving this storyline open for a possible sequel, but I honestly don't know if I'm going to write one. Quite frankly, I need a break from Halo for now. As far as writing goes, writing a seventy-chapter Halo story has pretty much worn me out. Right now, I've been writing a Left 4 Dead story called An American Odyssey--take a look at it if you're bored. When I do come back to Halo, I was thinking about writing another story based back in the War--yes, back to old school with the good ole' Covenant, no mysterious unknown forces or secret societies this time--centering around Alley Garris, a minor character from the beginning of this story. He is a man who's got a good story to tell. I would probably feature a lot of minor characters from my stories in it, though they would obviously be much younger. But again, that's going to be for Time to tell._

_Thank you all again, it's been quite an adventure!_

_-TheAmateur  
_


End file.
